


The Linden Tree

by DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Hobbit, Rohan, Yay shieldmaidens!, faux Tolkienese, hot Blacksmith!Thorin, interethnic romance, pageantry and tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:05:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 72
Words: 215,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed/pseuds/DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle of Azanulbizar, the remnants of Durin's Folk settled in Ered Luin, and laboured hard to build a new life there. But one day, Riders from the south came looking for skilled stonemasons. The Orcs, driven from the Misty Mountains, were now raiding Rohan; and the Hornburg, the refuge of the Eorlingas, was crumbling. Thorin and his companions set out with the Riders...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I took my cue from Richard Armitage saying he needed a long-lost love-interest to flesh out Thorin’s backstory. So I decided to oblige. Considering Thorin was only 21 when Smaug descended upon Erebor, the dwarven-princess hypothesis didn’t really work; so I perused the Appendices looking for a suitable time-frame, and came up with this. 
> 
> It's essentially "Young Thorin goes to Rohan, saves the day and gets the girl", set in T.A. 2815.
> 
> I’ve tried to adhere to book-canon as much as possible, with a few concessions to the film (Balin and Dwalin being older than Thorin, for instance; and of course Thorin’s manifest gorgeousness). I’ve also tried to write in as pedantically Tolkienesque an idiom as I could, but there are a few lapses here and there, because quite frankly a girl needs to have a little fun; so expect Dwarves with Eddaic names, Pratchetty footnotes, Wagner jokes, embedded quotations from canon, etc.
> 
> Slow build-up, because Thorin needs a little time to thaw.
> 
> There will be a little sex and violence later on, but in a very understated, English way.
> 
> Prologue and Epilogue contain SPOILERS for those who haven’t read the book.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Professor Tolkien created Middle-Earth and its denizens, and Peter Jackson and his team brought it all to life; I’m not sure who technically owns all of this, but it’s not me. I merely claim my OCs.
> 
> There you go, boys and girls; I hope you enjoy it. Do let me know what you think!

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Prologue**

 

After the stone lid had been placed on Thorin’s coffin, those of the Company who had known him the longest retired to one of the inner guard-rooms they had made their own during the siege. There was a hearth there, and they had hauled up from the cellars a few flagons of strong drink; and they drank to Thorin’s memory, though the fiery spirit gave them little comfort in their sorrow. Balin and Dwalin were there, of course, as were Óin and Glóin; and the Hobbit had come with them, for he was weary with war and grief and could not face the fuss and agitation that had come over the Mountain. And with them too came Gandalf, which rather surprised them.

“You too, Gandalf?” said Balin, a little unkindly. “I thought you’d rather be hobnobbing with Dáin and Bard and that Elvenking than sitting here with us lot.”

“I have already done my share of _hobnobbing_ , as you put it, Master Balin,” answered the wizard; “and I daresay there shall be more time to _hobnob_ in the days to come. But tonight I would sit with you, and remember Thorin Oakenshield; for I too mourn him, whether you believe it or not.”

“Oh very well. Here, have a drink. There are few enough of us as it is. The others are too busy getting friendly with Dáin’s people. Don’t suppose I can blame them.”

“Nah, and we ought to do the same, if we want to get anything out of this,” said Glóin. “But not while that preening Elvenking is around the place. Did you see that? Turning up at Thorin’s funeral with the sword, all magnanimous, after the way he treated us back in Mirkwood? And after sitting armed on our doorstep, waiting for us to starve? Sickening, that was.”

“Aye. I’d love to strangle the creepy git, but now that would be a diplomatic incident, wouldn’t it?” growled Dwalin.

Gandalf cleared his throat and rose. “Much as you all may loathe Thranduil,” he said, “let us not dwell on old grudges tonight; for we have gathered to honour the memory of a mighty Dwarf.” Gandalf raised his glass. “Thorin Oakenshield, the heir of Durin; King under the Mountain.”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” chorused the others, and drank. Bilbo spluttered, for the strong drink burned his throat. Óin patted him on the back.

“Our relationship may have been fraught,” Gandalf went on, “but he was a great and noble prince.”

“He was a hothead and a rubbish strategist, that’s what he was,” said Dwalin. “What did he think he was doing, rushing at Bolg like that?”

“Glorious last stand, brother,” answered Balin, and shook his head. “He was making such an end as would be worth a song.”

“Stiff-necked fool,” mumbled Dwalin, and he wept, and hid his face in his hands. And it was a great pity to see the strong, battle-scarred Dwarf weep like a child; but all knew that he and Thorin had been as brothers.

“And Fíli and Kíli,” said Bilbo, raising his glass; for he had been fond of the good-humoured young Dwarves.

“Aye, Fíli and Kíli” said the others, and drank.

“Stupid kids,” sobbed Dwalin into his mug.

“I guess I’ll have to go back to the Blue Mountains,” said Balin wistfully.

“I’ll go, if you like,” said Glóin. “I’ll bring back the wife and kid.”

“Do you fancy telling Dís?”

“Oh. Ah. Can’t we just send a raven?”

“Of course we’ll send a raven. But someone needs to tell her face to face.”

“Who’s Dís?” Bilbo whispered into Óin’s good ear.

“Dís, my lad, is Thorin’s sister, and the mother of Fíli and Kíli,” answered Óin.

“Oh dear,” said Bilbo.

“You said it. She’s a lady to be reckoned with; but she’s already lost her husband, and I fear this news will be too much for her.”

“No, it’s all right, I’ll go,” said Balin. “I think she’d rather hear it from me. Besides, there’s stuff that needs taking care of over there. He asked me to…look after a few things.”

A moody silence descended on the company, and each of them dwelled on feelings of loss. Bilbo felt maudlin, for this whole adventure seemed to him to have been a terrible waste.

“Look,” he said at last, “this is a wake, right? Aren’t we supposed to tell stories about the deceased, and remember all the glad times we had together? Well, I mean the glad times you had together, obviously. I was quite glad when he didn’t get killed by Wargs, but I don’t suppose that counts.”

The Dwarves stared at him. “Bilbo, my lad,” said Balin at last. “This is Thorin Oakenshield we’re talking about, remember? I’m not sure he ever _had_ glad times. Now let me see. You’ve already heard about the time when his home was torched by a dragon when he was a youngster. And the time he had to work as a blacksmith to make ends meet. _And_ the time his grandfather and his brother and half his kin were slain in a dreadful battle. How about the time when his father went bonkers and ran off into the wilderness and left him in charge of everything? Oh no, you’ve heard of that too.”

Bilbo hung his head, and his eyes filled with tears. “If you put it like that, Thorin does seem to have had a pretty miserable time of it.” No wonder he had always been in such a foul mood.

“Why don’t you tell the lad of that time with the horse-people?” Dwalin asked Balin.

“Oh no, not that! That’s got to be the worst of all! Besides, I don’t think he’d want us to talk about that.”

“I don’t know,” mused Dwalin. “It wasn’t all bad. Not at first. Not for a while, actually.”

“In any case, it was a long time ago. I can’t remember much.”

“Rubbish,” said Dwalin.

Balin looked around him, and saw that all were keen to hear the tale, and he was outnumbered. “Oh, very well,” he mumbled; “but let it be known that I would rather let the matter rest.”

“I think it is well we should remember Thorin in happier times,” said Gandalf. “And I do not think that he would begrudge us the telling of this tale, not now.”

“Well,” said Balin irascibly, “since you seem to know so well what he would and would not approve of, you can begin the tale, Gandalf. After all, you’re the one who started the whole sorry business.”

They all turned to look at Gandalf.

“Oh, hrm, yes,” said the wizard. “I’m afraid it all started with me knocking at a door.”


	2. Chapter 1

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 1**

 

The cold rain was beating down hard, and dripped off the brim of the old man’s hat. But still the doorward would not budge.

“You cannot pass!” he cried. “Wandering peddlers are not wanted in Meduseld. Now away with you, grandfather, or you shall feel the sharp end of my spear!”

“And you shall feel the blunt end of my stick, young man, and may it teach you some manners!” said the old man, whose patience was wearing thin. “I have told you, the lord of the Mark knows me, and welcomes me always.”

“The lord of the Mark is not here; and as for me, I have never seen you here.”

“And how long have you been here, lad? You must still have been hanging on your mother’s skirts when last I came. If the King is not there, what of the lady? She at least must be in.” 

“Do you think I shall disturb the lady because there is a beggar at the gate?”

“See that you do, or she will box your ears when she finds out how you have greeted me!”

The guard conferred with his fellows, and one marched inside the hall, still eyeing the old man suspiciously.

“There, they have gone to fetch her, as you wished. But then, I imagine a night in a nice dry cell will be an improvement on your present lot.”

“We shall see, my boy, we shall see”, said the old man, and stood still in the pounding rain as he waited.

The doorward, who stood in the dry under the shelter of the wooden arches, began to find the old man’s gaze unnerving. At last, the great door of the hall was thrown open, and the lady appeared, framed by more guards.

“What is this commotion?” she asked. 

“My lady, this ragged wanderer has been-”

“Gandalf!” cried the lady, surprised and delighted.

“Lady Helmwyn,” answered the old man, and bowed.

“Gandalf, you must come in at once, and dry yourself. Has the doorward treated you rudely?”

“Let us say he was… zealous”, said the old man, and gave the young soldier a sharp look. “I daresay my attire was not to his liking”.

The lady Helmwyn turned to the doorward, and her face was stern. “Gunnwald, is it?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“I will not have it said that anyone was turned away from King Brytta’s hall, however ragged-looking”, she said in a voice as cool as steel. “Remember whose arms you bear, and whom you serve, and do him honour! As for this lord,” she said, indicating the old man, “he is Gandalf Greyhame, a friend of the House of Eorl, and an honoured guest in Meduseld. You would do well to ask for his forgiveness.”

The soldier floundered, and bowed clumsily to the grey wanderer. “My lord, forgive me, I did not know-”

“Never you mind, boy,” said Gandalf. “Youth is ever quick to scorn old age. But let it be a lesson to you, not to judge others on their appearance. For appearances can be deceptive; and as the lady rightly said, this is the house of the King, and you should welcome every stranger with courtesy.”

And with that, leaving the mortified doorward at his post, the lady led the old man inside the hall. The heavy doors closed upon them, and inside it was warm, and a great fire burned in a trough in the centre of the room.

“I am sorry of this rude welcome, Gandalf”, said the lady Helmwyn. “Most of our seasoned men have been sent to the Westfold, and it seems our green youths have hardened their hearts to beggars and wanderers, for there are now many.”

“Things go ill with the Mark, then?”

“Aye. But that tale shall wait. Come, my friend!”

She took him by the arm as they walked, and led him towards the fire. He was soaked and travel-stained, but she cared not, so glad was she to see him.

“First you shall sit by the fire, and warm yourself, and when you are rested you shall tell me news and tales of far lands and strange peoples.”

“I have a feeling you will not let the news wait until I am dry!” laughed the old man. “But I will gladly sit by the fire and talk with you, my lady, for it is always a joy to see you. It has been too long.”

He stopped and looked at her with his searching gaze. The lady had the fair hair and grey eyes of her people, but she was of slighter build than the women of the Mark, and had a thoughtfulness and a grace that came from Gondor, on her mother’s side. She had been but a girl when he last saw her, but now she had grown into a fair young woman. But he could see that she was burdened with cares, and though she was smiling, her eyes were grave.

“Come, child, let us sit and talk. And perhaps, if there were something warm to drink…?” he trailed off, and raised a hopeful eyebrow.

She laughed. “Of course. Anything for my guest”, said she, and showed him to a bench by the fire.

***

The old man’s staff stood propped against a mighty carved pillar, and his hat and cloak hung steaming by the fireside, while he sat and gratefully ate a bowl of hot stew, and listened to the news from the Mark. It seemed that this tale could not wait after all, and that the lady Helmwyn needed to confide in him. The Mark was at peace no longer.

“The Orcs have grown ever more numerous over the past few years,” she told him, “and their raids ever more frequent. Folk whose winter reserves have been stolen, when they are not slain, are forced to leave their homesteads and seek refuge with their kin, or flee to the east. I fear we shall have a famine again, Gandalf. We might be able to buy grain from Gondor, but what shall we have to trade with when the Orcs steal or horses and our sheep?” She sighed. “If only…”

“If only what, my child?

“If only the farmers could be persuaded to move together in larger homesteads, they might be better able to defend themselves. But the farms in the Westfold are scattered and vulnerable. Nay. The only solution I can see would be to store a great part of the grain in a safe place, to feed those that have been despoiled. But the only such safe place would be Helm’s Deep, and the walls of the Hornburg are crumbling; and the caves we cannot defend, for the Orcs are likely to come down from the mountains, through the many cracks and crevices that open into the caverns.”

“That is ill news indeed, my lady.”

He put down his spoon. The stew had been good, and filling, but as ever when he was in Rohan, he wondered whether he had been eating horse. He took a sip of mulled wine and tried not to think about it.

This business with Orcs in the White Mountains worried him. They had troubled Rohan before, he knew, but now it seemed they were beginning to settle, and perhaps to breed, and harassed the people of the Westfold. It seemed that after the hardship of the war with the Dunlendings, and the Long Winter, the fragile peace of Rohan would break once more.

“What is Saruman doing about this? Is he doing anything at all?”

The lady frowned. “He sits in Orthanc and looks out over the Gap of Rohan and promises help; but he has no army, and what form his help may take, we can but guess. But I know he is your friend, and I should not speak ill of what I do not understand.”

“Dear lady, you may speak plainly with me. And I would hear what you have to say.”

“Perhaps he _does_ have some power that we cannot perceive, and perhaps he _is_ using it to protect us; and perhaps things would be worse without him, and I am doing him an injustice. But I shall tell you plainly: I like him not, Gandalf, for under his honeyed words, he is cold, and I feel he has but contempt for our people.” She shook her head. “Forgive me, Gandalf, my cares make me impatient. Might you perhaps talk to him?”

“Saruman’s mind is subtle, and his designs are difficult to perceive. But he involves himself in such lofty matters, that perhaps a few Orc-raids seem to him but a trifle,” said he diplomatically. And nearly added: ‘and he never cared much for the sufferings of common folk’, but he did not wish to speak ill of Saruman either. Indeed, he knew Saruman did not think much of the house of Eorl, though he did not tell her that. He admired Saruman’s learning; but he also knew the head of his order was all mind and no heart, and this made him uneasy. “Perhaps I _should_ talk to him. A few Orc-raids can become a war, and I am sure at least that he shall not want a war on his doorstep.” He gave the lady as reassuring a smile as he could muster.

“You shall be able to discuss this with my father when he returns,” said she. “Hunting Orcs has become his chief sport, and that of most of our Riders. How long can you stay, Gandalf?”

“Maybe a few days, but not more, for I have business to attend to, and now it seems I am to call on Saruman too. But I should be glad to speak with the King. Has he still the same indomitable spirit and the same hearty laugh?”

“Aye, that he does, and it is a great comfort to all in the Mark who see him ride hither and thither through the land, for it shows them we are still unconquered. For now. But come, my friend, tell me news of the wide world, for I would forget my cares awhile.”

“The news of the wide world is seldom glad, my lady,” Said Gandalf, “but I will tell you some of it; and who knows, it may profit you to know what perils other peoples face, and how they fight them. Here, drink with me.” He poured her a cup of mulled wine, and refilled his own. “I must say, this is truly excellent. Most invigorating.” He rummaged in his bag and produced a slender pipe and a pouch of weed. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“It is a strange habit,” said the lady, “but you may do as you please. Indeed, the first time I saw you, and saw that you were breathing smoke, I was both terrified and fascinated. I thought you might turn into a dragon.”

The old man smiled. She had been a tiny child then, but an inquisitive one. He puffed on his pipe.

“I like a pipe by the fireside. I find it soothing, and it helps me think. Now where were we. Ah yes, news. Let me think. Speaking of dragons, have you heard of the Dwarves of late?”

“Only what you told me when last you came. You said a great dragon had laid waste their underground realm and stolen their treasures.”

“Aye, that he did, and for all anyone knows, he sits under the mountain still, watching his hoard. But the Dwarves had to flee from their homeland, and took the long road of exile.”

“A sad tale. But what could anyone do against such a foe?”

“What indeed? But I will tell you what befell them. They travelled west, for they hoped to retake the halls of their fathers in the Misty Mountains. But these were crawling with Orcs and other, worse things, and so the Dwarves remained without a land of their own, and were scattered, and made what living they could labouring among Men. But they are a proud people, lady, and one day their King, Thrór, who had been King under the Mountain before the dragon came, could bear this shame no longer and went to reclaim the ancient realm of Moria.”

“Did he succeed?”

The wizard shook his head sadly. “Nay. He was slain by Orcs, and his body was defiled. But his death stoked the fire in the hearts of his people, and they gathered their strength, and at last Thrór’s son Thráin led his armies against the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. The war lasted several years, and many Orcs were slain. At last, Thráin stood before the gates of Moria, where many of the remaining Orcs had fled, and there was a great battle.”

Gandalf waxed into his role as a storyteller, for knew she loved such tales, being a true daughter of Eorl.

“First it seemed to be going ill for the Dwarves, for the Orcs were many, and desperate. Thráin was wounded, and they say he lost an eye. But Thráin’s son Thorin fought the captain of the Orcs. His shield was shattered, but he picked up a branch of oak and defended himself with that, and so defeated the Orc-chieftain. The Dwarves saw this, and their courage was re-ignited; and they rallied behind Thorin Oakenshield, and won the day.”

“If there be songs of this battle, I should like to hear them, for it seems great and valiant deeds were done on that day” said she, and indeed, he saw that her eyes were shining.

“If the Dwarves made songs about this day, I fear they are not merry songs, my lady; for it was a bitter victory. Many of their folk had been slain, and they could not retake the realm of Moria, for therein dwelt an evil they could not defeat.”

“Not another dragon?”

“Nay. Something altogether worse.”

The old man grew silent, and gazed into the fire, and would not say any more of this evil; and she did not press him, for the saw dread in his eyes. Instead, she asked:

“But what of the Dwarves?”

“They came west of the Misty Mountains, and wandered as before, hiring out heir skills to the Men of Eriador.”

“Your tale fills me with sorrow,” said the lady; “for the Dwarves sound like a proud and valiant people. What must it be like to lose the home of one’s ancient fathers, _twice_!”

“It _is_ a sorrowful tale, like all tales where folk are driven from their homes by the spawn of the enemy” said Gandalf, and puffed on his pipe. “I am fond of Dwarves, and wish them well, though they are prickly and stubborn. But be comforted, lady. For though I have not seen it myself, I have heard that they have begun to settle in the southern Blue Mountains, on the western marches of Eriador.”

“It seems a perilous business, dwelling under mountains. Let us hope that there is no ancient evil there, waiting to prey on them.”

“Let us hope so indeed! But they are a stout folk, and skilled in all manner of crafts, and I have no doubt that within a few decades they shall have built a prosperous new life for themselves.”

He sat there for a while, wreathed in pipe-smoke, and watched the lady, who was gazing into the fire, lost in thought.

“Of course,” said Gandalf, “they will still need to work for a while until their new realm is established.”

The lady looked up at the old man, and saw his eyes twinkle.

 


	3. Chapter 2

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 2

 

All day the Dwarves had toiled through the undergrowth. Spring had brought floods, and the well-trodden path that led eastwards was drowned. They had tried cutting through the wooded hills, hoping to join the road again further on; but now night was falling, and they had not found the road, and there was not a village in sight.

“It’s useless, lads,” said Thorin. “There’s nothing for it but to camp here tonight.”

“Again,” said Balin. “Is it just an impression, or are we lost?”

“The roads are flooded. Of course we’re bloody lost,” answered Thorin irritably. He would not be questioned, although he knew deep down that his orienteering skills weren’t quite what he would wish. Not that he was worried; even striking through the woodlands, they were bound to come across other dwellings of Men sooner or later. But he was already weary of the damp, and of _cram_ ; and they had only set out a couple of weeks ago.

The Dwarves put down their packs and their tool-boxes, and set about gathering wood and getting a fire started. They huddled close to the blaze, and shared their cheerless meal; and Thorin saw poor Dwalin eyeing his _cram_ balefully. Dwalin caught Thorin’s eye. “Say, Thorin, how much longer d’you reckon we’ll have to do this?” 

Thorin shrugged. He would have liked to know that himself. “Until more of us turn up. Until we find a seam of something interesting. Until someone thinks up a way of turning sandstone into gold.”

The Dwarves laughed mirthlessly. They knew well enough what could and could not be done with metal.

“S’funny,” said Dwalin. “I always assumed that, you know, we’d move in, and that would be that. Nice cosy home. No more wandering.”

“Half a year on the road beats the whole year on the road, if you ask me,” said Snorri, and sneezed.

“You know how it is, brother,” said Balin. “If we want food, we need cash. The mines are simply not yielding enough for the moment.”

“Mahal knows we waste enough time down there. We should be getting on with building some proper halls,” said Hogni, whose ambitious plans for the Great Hall of Ered Luin had been frustrated for years.

“We can build, or we can delve, Hogni; but a fine hall won’t feed you,” said Andvari. Regin rolled his eyes, but did not contradict his brother.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you,” grumbled Hogni. Andvari was a miner, and therefore biased.

“Come on, boys,” said Thorin, in an attempt at lifting his companions’ morale. “We’re going to be fine. Things aren’t easy, but they’re a lot less hard than they were. We’ll just have to grit our teeth for a few more years. Helgi, how are you getting on with your experiments?”

“Well, I think,” answered Helgi the glassblower. “I got some rather pretty effects. Iridescent, like.”

“That sounds promising,” said Balin. “We might be able to sell that to the bloody Elves!”

The Dwarves laughed again, more heartily this time.

“Aye, that would be nice, to lighten the ponces’ purses a bit,” said Helgi. “But I do wish I had more time in my workshop, and less time spent on the road or down the mineshaft.”

“Soon, my friend,” said Thorin, “soon.”

***

It began to rain again, and the Dwarves sheltered under the trees as well as they could. Thorin lit his pipe, and wrapped his cloak closer about his shoulders, and gazed mournfully into the fire. If he had tried to cheer his men, he felt very little cheer himself.

Not that he ever had much reason to be cheerful. He shouldered the weight of hardship as much as his fellows; but more than them, he smarted from the shame of destitution and exile, though he bore himself ever proudly, for their sake as much as for the sake of his house. But these things had become second nature to him, and they were not what troubled him now. Thorin had become increasingly uneasy about leaving the Ered Luin for long periods of time, as he worried about what Thráin might do.

Thráin had survived the Battle of Azanulbizar, but he had been grievously wounded; and though he had lost an eye, it was feared the greater hurt had been to his mind. Thráin had become restless, and impatient, and distracted; sometimes, he sat despondent for days and spoke barely a word, or worked himself up into a towering rage over trifles.

The worst was when someone was addressing him, but he looked away, and did not reply, and gazed unseeing into the middle distance, and though he had gone somewhere far away in his mind. His erratic behaviour was perhaps not yet apparent to most; but those who were close to him, and knew him well, saw that this was not merely dwarven ill-humour, but something worse. They shook their heads sadly, and said nothing to the King, but turned instead to his son in matters of state.

But every spring, Thorin set out on the road; and when he came back, he found Thráin had deteriorated further, and grieved that he was no longer the strong, commanding lord he remembered from the days of his youth. Thorin feared it would not be long before his father ran off half-crazed after some dream of glory, like Thrór had done in his folly. And so Thorin squared his jaw and took on this new burden; but he wished now more than ever that his brother had not been slain. How he would have needed his help in looking after their people, and their father, and their sister.

The fire hissed, and smoked, and went out, and Thorin steeled himself for another comfortless night in the wild.

***

The dawn came, pale and damp; and the Dwarves shook the droplets of moisture from their cloaks as best they could, and set off again, heading downhill. They found the eastern road again, and saw with relief that they had skirted the flood. The clouds had cleared a little, and the Dwarves struck out eastwards in rather better spirits.

They had been walking at a good pace for an hour or two, when they heard the sound of hooves in the distance. As the sound drew nearer, the Dwarves perceived that this must be a great company of riders, and they were approaching fast now, for the noise they made was like thunder. The Dwarves looked around them, seeking a place to shelter in the trees, for they were wary of robbers, and had no wish to come across a large party of Men; but the road ran now between hills that rose steeply on either side, and were but sparsely wooded, and offered no refuge.

“Looks like we’re going to have to stand our ground, boys,” said Thorin, and hefted his axe.

Around a bend in the road there came the host of riders; and the Dwarves saw that they were very tall, and wore bright hauberks such as were never seen in these parts. Spears they carried, and round shields emblazoned with the sun, and their tall helms were crested with horses’ tails.

When the riders saw them, their leader raised a hand and ordered them to stop; and the horsemen cantered to a halt, spreading out as they could on the narrow road. The Dwarves, surrounded and outnumbered, gathered into a close circle, and drew their weapons. But the leader of the horsemen spurred his steed a few steps closer, and greeted them in the Common Tongue.

“Hail and well met, Masters, if you be indeed Dwarves, as my eyes would have me believe.”

“Your eyes are sharp indeed if you can tell us from Elves at a glance,” sneered Thorin. “But who might you be, riding thus armed through Eriador? If there be a war between Men, we want no part in it.”

“We do not hail from Eriador,” answered the rider, “and neither is war our purpose here. We are looking for Dwarves. But we came seeking craftsmen, not warriors; and it seems that you yourselves are ready for war.”

“We are craftsmen _and_ warriors,” said Thorin.

“Men are sometimes under the mistaken impression that we Dwarves carry sacks of gold and jewels around with us,” said Balin helpfully.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true, eh lads?” called Dwalin, casually swinging his hammer. The Dwarves laughed grimly.

“We find it necessary to show them what we are really carrying around,” resumed Balin, and his face was not at all kindly.

“Peace, Masters, I pray you,” said the rider. “If we wished to rob you, would we not have done so already? But such is not our errand. Will you not hear me?”

“Very well, state your business!” growled Thorin, but he did not take his hand from his axe.

The rider took off his helm as a gesture of goodwill. “Well met, Masters, I say to you again. I am Amleth, captain of the Riddermark.”

There was a silence among the Dwarves.

“Never heard of it,” said Thorin.

***

Amleth took a deep breath. This was not going at all well. It was fortunate that the lady had sent him, and not some of the younger hotheads of the guard, otherwise there might have been bloodshed by now.

She had been most particular in her instructions to him. “Be sure to address them with the greatest courtesy”, she had said, trying not to forget anything that Gandalf had told her, “for Dwarves are suspicious of Men, and very proud; and though they may look like humble craftsmen to you, they may be great warriors and lords among their people. For even high-born Dwarves learn to smith or delve, even as we in the Mark learn to ride, and there is no dishonour in it, but pride.” Amleth had bowed, and promised. “We need them, Amleth,” she had said at last, “do not fail us.” She had looked at him gravely; and though he thought she was clutching at straws, he did not wish to disappoint her. “I will not fail you, my lady,” he had said.

Remembering the lady’s words, Amleth summoned all the courtesy he was capable of, in the face of the openly hostile Dwarves.

“You may not have heard it called the Riddermark,” he said, “but perhaps you know it by another name; for it is called Rohan in the Elvish tongue, and thus the men of Gondor name it.”

“Aye, that does ring a bell,” said Thorin. “I heard the name, back when we were in Dunland. I gather you people aren’t very popular in those parts.” To be fair, after a few years of their war against the Orcs, the Dwarves had been none too popular there either, and removed to Ered Luin soon after. “So what do you want with us?”

“Dwarves, they say, are great craftsmen and skilled with stone.”

“Is that what they say?” Thorin did not like being looked down upon, especially by a tall fellow on horseback.

 “So famed indeed is the skill of your people, that we have ridden many miles in search of you. Everyone in these parts knew of the Dwarves, but none could tell us where you could be found, only that you walked the land every spring; and we wandered long looking for you.”

The Dwarves made no reply, but gave him a stony look.

Amleth tried again. “It is said that you will hire out your skills to Men; and we indeed have great need of you. For Orcs have come down from the Misty Mountains, and the Mark is under threat; and only the craft of the Dwarves can now help us strengthen our ancient defences.”

“That is as may be,” answered Thorin. “But what will you offer us?”

“That you will need to discuss with the King,” said the Rider. “I have not the authority to decide your reward. This only can I tell you: the Mark is rich in two things, grassland and horses; but I daresay we can offer you more than the villagers in these parts ever could.”

The Dwarves considered this. “What do you think, lads?” Thorin said to his companions in the dwarvish tongue. “I think the captain has a point. Look at the armour these riders are wearing. These are a rich people, or richer at any rate than the folk around here.”

“I rather like the sound of it,” said Balin. “A job like this might keep us off the road next summer.”

“But Thorin,” objected Helgi, “none of us are proper stonemasons, except Hogni!”

“We all of us know how to hold a chisel,” said Thorin. “I daresay that whatever we can do shall be good enough for them.”

“They won’t be pleased when they find out that those Orcs are troubling them because of us,” said Dwalin.

“Then let’s make sure they don’t find out,” said Thorin with a grin. “So. Are we all agreed?”

There were mumbles and nods of assent. Aside from Helgi’s misgivings, all thought that they would take their chances with these Riders.

“Very well,” Thorin called to Amleth. “We will come with you; but on one condition. We must be back in the Blue Mountains before the winter.”

“If you must be back, then you shall be back,” said Amleth, relieved. “Moreover, I can promise you shall have mounts to speed your homeward journey.”

“That is well,” said Thorin, “but how do you propose that we journey now? For we will not be flung over your saddlebags like luggage!”

“We have a few spare horses,” said the rider, “and I daresay you yourself, and your fierce-looking companion there, will be tall enough to ride them. The rest of your company shall each be carried by one of us, if it please you.”

The Dwarves grumbled, but there was no better solution, and they did not propose to walk all the way to Rohan.

Helgi they sent back to the Blue Mountains with a message informing Thráin of their whereabouts; and Thorin knew that Helgi was relieved to be back in his workshop sooner that expected. And so the Dwarves bid farewell to their companion, and departed with the horsemen.

 


	4. Chapter 3

**THE LINDEN TREE**  

**Chapter 3**

 

Though Dwalin could ride well enough, he liked it not, and was saddle-sore; and he very much hoped there would be no more riding for a long while when they had reached Rohan. The Dwarves were hardy folk, but they were no great horsemen; and when they used mounts at all, these tended to be sturdy little ponies that were good on mountainous terrain, but seldom made great speed. But ponies were a luxury for Dwarves in these straitened times, and were reserved for tradesmen with goods to carry. In any case, ponies could not have kept the pace, and there was nothing for it but to cling on.

Never had the Dwarves thought that riding could be such tiring work, and soon became heartily sick of it; but they thought of the gold and gritted their teeth. The Riders though were strong and tireless, and so were their horses, though they had been on the road for weeks; and indeed they made better time on the way back than on the journey out, for then they had wandered long, but now their course was clear, and the Mountains drew nearer day by day.

They rode south for many days, and forded many rivers; and they rode through fen, and scrubland, and woodland, and barren hills, and past the homesteads of Men; and not all of them were friendly, for there had long been an enmity between the Rohirrim and the people of Dunland. But the Riders were tall, and had shining spears, and kept watch, and none dared attack them.

They came at last to the southernmost tip of the Misty Mountains, where they reached across a narrow plain to the northernmost peaks of the White Mountains. This was the furthest south that the Dwarves had ever been.

“Behold the Gap of Rohan!” said Amleth. “I should be glad to set eyes on it again, but the last part of our journey might yet be the most dangerous; for it is here, where the plain narrows, that the Orcs choose to cross. They never do it but under the cover or darkness, for the grasslands offer them no shelter. We shall ride no further tonight, and light no fires; but tomorrow we shall leave before dawn, and by evening we may reach the King’s hall in Edoras.”

The next morning, they set out in the grey light before dawn; and as the sky lightened, they saw the feet of the Last Mountain draw near, and march past. The sun rose in the East, bright and golden, in a clear sky; and they saw at last before them the rolling grasslands of Rohan, and away to the south the White Mountains, whose snow-capped peaks were edged in golden light. Rider and horse were glad to be home again, and filled their lungs with the cool morning hair, and rode on through the rich, dew-wet grass.

They forded a swift river, and passed onto the plains, and shouldered some low round hills. Amleth pointed to another hill, higher than the others, and the Dwarves saw that into the hillside was carved the image of a great white horse, running on the green grass. The hill must have been limestone, and the white horse gleamed in the morning light; and the riders sounded their horns to greet it.

They rode due south-east. The clear dawn turned into a bright, blustery day. The wind that blew down from the White Mountains chased ragged clouds across the sky. The Dwarves felt a chill, though the sun was shining; and the Riders lent them their leather capes against the wind, and against the frequent but brief showers of rain that swept over them.

They came at last within sight of Edoras. The city was built upon a green hill at the foot of the White Mountains, and at its summit stood a great hall; and it seemed to the Dwarves that its roof glinted golden in the afternoon sun.

Gold. That was an encouraging prospect for Thorin and his travel-weary companions.

 ***

The Riders sounded their horns as they approached the gates of Edoras, and shortly after they heard more horns answering them from the city watchers. The gate swung open for them, and as they rode in, the Dwarves saw that the gateposts were carved in the likeness of horses’ heads.

The guards greeted Amleth and his _éored_ , and rejoiced to see them again after so long an absence; but they marvelled at the Dwarves’ strange appearance. The Riders made their way up the path that wound around the green hill and led to the great hall; and as they passed wooden houses, they saw that tall strong women and yellow-haired children were coming out to look at them. Their faces were guarded, but bespoke wonder rather than hostility, for none in the Mark had ever seen a Dwarf, and took them to be the stuff of old legends out of the North.

The children appeared particularly impressed by Dwalin, with his crest of hair, his tattoos and his two great battle-axes. He grinned at some of them, but if he hoped to frighten them, he failed, for these were children of the Mark, and loved nothing better than fierce warriors. As for Thorin, he noticed that there were few men, and these were old, or lame; and he saw on the women’s faces the air of a proud people harassed by war and hardship. He knew that look, for the womenfolk of the Dwarves had worn it always during the time of their exile. His sister had that look.

They came to the foot of the stair that led to the hall, and dismounted; and Amleth led them up the broad stone stair, past tall guards in shining scale armour, to the platform before the hall.

The Dwarves did not care for wooden buildings, for to them wood was a lesser material, suitable only for barns or temporary structures; but they had to admit that the Golden Hall was of handsome proportion, and richly ornamented. Now that they stood before it, they saw that its great posts were intricately carved, and that the roof seemed to be made out of gilded shields. Though the carvings were strange, they were covered in a goodly amount of gold leaf, giving it in their eyes a sort of primitive majesty. It was certainly more impressive that any dwelling of Men they had seen in many years.

The doorward stepped forward and raised his hand in greeting.

“Amleth! You are returned at last from your wild errand in the North?”

“Aye, Gunnwald, I am! And hither have I also brought long-expected guests.”

The doorward eyed the strangers warily, but he had learned from his brush with the grey wanderer and addressed them courteously:

“Hail, strangers from a far land! You have come to Meduseld, the hall of Brytta, King of the Mark. Lay aside your weapons, and enter!”

The doorward had meant this as a welcome, but he saw the Dwarves bristle. Thorin glared at him from under his stormy brows.

“You would have us do _what_?”

Gunnwald wondered what he had done wrong this time. “Er. Lay aside your weapons and enter. That is a standard greeting in the Mark,” he added helpfully.

Thorin turned to Amleth, exasperated. “What was the point in making us come all this way, only to turn us away at the doorstep? Come on, lads, we’re leaving.” The Dwarves turned around and made to stomp off down the stair.  

Oh no, thought Amleth. “Masters, please!” he called after them. “Do not leave, I beg you. We did not mean to give offence.” The Dwarves turned their glare on him. “It is the custom of the Mark to leave one’s weapons at the door, as a token of peace and goodwill”, explained Amleth as diplomatically as he could.

“A Dwarf does not part willingly with his weapons, Captain,” growled Thorin.

“And in most cases, I should deem that wise. But no danger awaits you in Meduseld. And indeed, were I a guest in the halls of your king, I should willingly leave my arms at the door.”

Thorin gave Amleth a long, hard look. “Very well. Here I shall set my weapons. I do this for your sake, Amleth, for the courtesy you have shown us. But if any man touch these weapons, he shall learn that even an unarmed Dwarf can make him rue the day.”

He scowled as he set his axe, sword and bow against the wall, and also his oakenshield; and the others followed suit, grumbling. Gunnwald grew pale as he saw a veritable arsenal pile up at the foot of the hall.

“I thought your errand was to bring back craftsmen, Amleth,” said Gunnwald nervously.

“Oh, but we are” said Dwalin, unstrapping his battle-axes. “We have many skills”.

“Don’t look so worried, laddie,” said Balin, wandering up to the poor doorward. “What you’ve got to understand is - well, Dwarves and weapons, it’s like you people and horses. It’s _cultural_.” He smiled genially, and went to set something extremely spiky against the wall.

Dwalin was still pulling out miscellaneous sharp items from the recesses of his clothes.

“So, er, were you expecting any particular perils on the road?” said Gunnwald, making a spirited attempt at polite conversation.

Dwalin looked up. “What? Oh no. This is the stuff I always carry around. For everyday use, you might say.” He gave Gunnwald a grin. “You should see me on _special occasions_."

The disarmed Dwarves assembled before the gate, feeling a little naked and, in Thorin’s case, rather hard done by. Think of the gold, he kept telling himself. Stay calm, just think of the gold. Judging by the amount of gold on the gable, these people might still make their journey worth their while.

Gunnwald gave a nervous nod to the other guards, and the doors of the great hall were opened.


	5. Chapter 4

**THE LINDEN TREE**  

**Chapter 4**

 

Amleth led the Dwarves inside the great hall. Inside it was dim, and they caught glimpses of tall carved pillars, and the glint of gold, and the rich hues of woven tapestries. At the far end of the hall there was a dais with a carved wooden chair; but the chair was empty, and beside it stood a lady. She was slender, and clad all in blue. Grave and thoughtful were her eyes; and though she was young, she seemed burdened with many cares.

Amleth stopped and bowed deep before her.

“My lady, I have returned from Eriador with seven Dwarf craftsmen, as you commanded.”

“You have my thanks, Amleth, and those of the King,” said the lady, and her voice was deep and musical; “for your journey was long, and your errand uncertain. But you have succeeded in your quest, and brought hope to the Mark.”

Amleth bowed again, and stood aside.

The lady looked at the Dwarves. She had not really known what to expect, although she knew they must be a doughty folk, to have fought against the Orcs for so long. But she found their appearance truly striking; for some looked homely, and some proud, but all looked fierce. The big one with the crest of hair and a face like a fist, especially; even unarmed, he _bristled_. She remembered Gandalf’s words, and took a deep breath, and extended her open hands in greeting.

“Welcome, Masters,” said she. “I am Helmwyn, daughter of Brytta, and in the name of the King my father, I bid you welcome to the Riddermark. I fear the King is not here to greet you himself, for he is hunting for Orcs that have been plaguing our western marches. Amleth will have told you something of our troubles, and of the reason we have called you hither?”

There was a mumble of assent and a few nods, but otherwise stony silence. She would have to work harder to put them at their ease.

“It is said that Dwarves are marvellously skilled at stonework,” she went on, with all the courtesy she could muster. “And the Mark has great need of your skill in this hour of peril. The great fastness of the Mark is crumbling, and we cannot repair it; for it was not made by us, but by the men of Númenor long ago. You can see it for yourselves, my people do not build in stone; and there are none now, even in Gondor, who know how to build like the Sea-kings of old. When we heard that your people had come west of the Mountains, we sent for you at once; for indeed, you are our last hope.”

There was a moment of silence, but then a deep voice answered her: “The Golden Hall may not be made of stone, my lady, yet it is great, and fair. As for your troubles, we know of them, and shall be glad to discuss how we may help your people mend their stronghold.”

The one who had spoken was a tall Dwarf with a mane of dark hair and piercing eyes; and she thought him to be their leader, for his speech was noble, and he had a lordly bearing. She also noted his hint that nothing was agreed yet.

“I thank you for your words,” said she. “We shall soon discuss the matter in greater detail. But first you shall rest, for you have a long road behind you. I thank you for undertaking this journey, Masters, and hope we shall come to a mutually profitable agreement.” She watched the Dwarves, who appeared to like the sound of that. “But before you rest,” she went on, “there is something I must ask of you. I was told that Dwarves do not willingly give their true names. If that is your custom, we shall respect it; but tell me, what shall you be called during your stay in the Mark?”

“My lady,” answered their leader, “it is true we Dwarves do not give our true names; but as for the names we use, we have no reason to keep them secret in the house of the King of the Mark.” He then announced solemnly, “I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór; and these are my companions, Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin, Snorri, Hogni, Andvari and Regin”; and each Dwarf bowed deeply as his name was spoken.

Helmwyn tried to memorise their names, then gave up, letting the litany of strange dwarven names wash over her. There would be time to learn them later. The leader’s name however, together with his bearing and his speech, had stirred something in her memory. She held him long in her gaze.

“I believe I have heard your name before, Thorin Thráinsson,” said she at last. “Are not you the one they call the Oakenshield?”

“Aye, my lady, I am he.” She could see that he was surprised.

“Then I must beg for your forgiveness, my lord; for had I known you were coming to the Mark, you should have been greeted here with the honours befitting a king.” And with that she stepped off the dais and bowed before Thorin.

There was a hush, and then a stir; and she perceived that her gesture had made an impression on the Dwarves. And indeed it had, for they had long been a wandering people, and had become unaccustomed to any courtesy at the hands of Men.

But Thorin was a prince, and accepted such courtesy as his due, and responded in kind. “There is naught to forgive, for the welcome of the Lady of the Mark wanted nothing in courtesy,” said he; and he bowed to her in his turn.

They looked at one another, and understood one another, for they were both the children of kings. And both felt this would make things a great deal easier.

*******

Balin groaned inwardly.

Now he’s gone and revealed his name and his lineage, he thought. He might as well have stood on the foothills of the White Mountains and shouted ‘the Heir of Durin is here, come and get him!’ to all the Orcs that were skulking up there. He couldn’t very well nudge his liege and tell him to shut up, and in any case the harm was done now. He sighed.

That was the thing about Thorin; he never bothered to conceal his majesty. Oh, he could well understand that to Thorin, the dignity of his house, and of his race, were essential to his sense of self. Pride was a way of remembering. The day he gave that up, he would be truly lost and broken. But there was such a thing as _discretion_.

Thorin never gave his name in the Mannish settlements where he laboured, and the Men did not ask; but had they known it, it would have meant nothing to them. To them, one Dwarf was much like another, except that this one was particularly haughty. But he was a fine smith, and so they hired him, and otherwise let him be.

But here, things were altogether different. These people were kings, and powerful enough after the reckoning of Men; they had heard the tales, and knew who he was. Thorin should have been more cautious; he should have given another name, he should have denied being the Oakenshield.

But he had allowed himself to be flattered. Aye, the lady had spoken courteously enough; but after years of wilderness, and the scant welcome of Men, that courtesy had clearly gone to Thorin’s head like mead. His righteous anger over their weapons had vanished like mist in the morning sun. He spoke, and he bore himself, as though he were indeed a king, and not the heir without hope of a landless people. Balin felt this was dangerous, and he did not feel too sure about this Lady of the Mark, and her purposes.

But now she called to the guards, and bid them summon the heralds, and sent for mead, and for her ceremonial garments; and she led the Dwarves once more to the terrace before the hall, so that she might greet them formally after the custom of the Mark. And Balin saw that Thorin walked with her.

Well, there was one good thing to be said about the people of the Mark at least: they seemed to like ceremony almost as much as Dwarves did.

*******

“How am I to announce you, my lord?” asked the lady Helmwyn as they walked towards the doors; and the horns of the heralds were heard outside, summoning all of Edoras. “Are you now king of your people? How fares the lord Thráin? Forgive my asking, but my news travelled long before reaching me.”

“King Thráin lives, and rules still over our people in the Blue Mountains” said Thorin cautiously. This was not an untruth.

“Then long yet may he rule, and may your people know peace and prosperity in their new home.”

He thanked her for her words, but did not tell her the whole truth, for the state of his father grieved him, and he did not wish to speak of it.

The doors of the hall opened once more, and the Dwarves’ weapons were brought to them, with some caution, by the doorward and his sentries. They girded themselves slowly, and with great satisfaction, all the while looking pointedly at the unfortunate Gunnwald. And among all their assorted weaponry, the lady noticed that the lord Thorin did indeed carry a branch of oak, iron-bound and fashioned to fit his shield-arm like a mighty vambrace.

A heavy, gold-embroidered cloak was laid across the lady’s shoulders, and fastened with a golden brooch; and upon her brow they set a circlet of golden flowers. And she stepped out onto the windswept terrace, and the Dwarves followed her, and Amleth also; and the horns sounded once more, and banners bearing the white horse streamed out in the wind.

The lady saw that the people of Edoras were gathered, and looked up expectantly at her. She raised her hands, and silence fell, and she spoke to her people thus:

“Eorlingas!” called she in a clear, commanding voice. “This day brings joy, and hope! Valiant Amleth rode with his _éored_ into the far north, to seek the Dwarves, and ask for their help. And behold! They have sent us their finest craftsmen and warriors. And among them is none other than the prince of their people, the mighty Thorin Oakenshield, who defeated the Orcs of the Misty Mountains!”

A murmur of wonder began to spread through the assembled crowd. Thorin could feel the eyes of every man, woman and child upon him.

“Gladly do we welcome them now,” she went on, “for with their help we may mend the Hornburg, and keep the Orcs at bay!”

She took a cup from one of the attendants, and raised it up; and Thorin saw that it was richly wrought, and engraved with the figures of horsemen.

“Receive now this cup, and drink King Brytta’s mead, as a sign of friendship between the Dwarves and the Mark. _West thu hál_!” And with that she took a draught from the cup, and gave it to Thorin. As he took it, their eyes met; and now that she beheld him in the full light of day, she saw that his eyes were the pale blue of mountain ice, and that they were proud and sorrowful.

But he in turn raised the cup to her, and said: “I thank you, Helmwyn, Brytta’s daughter, for your words of welcome; and I drink now to you, and to the King, and to all your people.” And as he drank from the cup, a chorus of cheers rose from the crowd, and the Riders that were gathered at the foot of the stairs beat their spears against their shields. And amid the clamour, Thorin heard shouts of _‘Eorlingas!’_ , but also of _‘Dweorga-bealdor!’_ and _‘Áecen-scyld!’_.

Thorin passed the cup the Balin, and he to Dwalin; and while his companions drank from the cup of welcome, he looked around him from that high place, at the cheering crowd and beyond, out to the rolling grasslands under the vast dome of the sky. The taste of mead lingered in his mouth, and gusts of wind swept the terrace, and the light of the setting sun gilded all the land with red gold. He looked last to the Lady, and saw that she was smiling.

When all the Dwarves had drunk, and the clamour from the crowd had died down a little, she turned to Amleth, and praised his valour and his service, and gave him a sword. Then they went back inside the hall, and the voices of the crowd still rang out behind them.

Thorin had been honoured by the welcome he had received, but now he had some misgivings. “I fear you have forced my hand, my lady. For whatever your terms, it seems I am now honour-bound to help your people.”

“Nay, my lord, I would not do such a thing. Though indeed I dread our negotiations, for I hear the Dwarves drive a hard bargain!” she said, but her smile widened. “But you are right, for that formal greeting had another purpose besides mere courtesy." 

“And what might that be?”

“You heard the people, my lord. They were shouting ‘the prince of the Dwarves!’ and ‘Oakenshield!’. And soon, the news will have spread to the farthest reaches of the Mark that the prince of the Dwarves and one hundred of his best axemen have come to our aid.”

Balin, who walked behind them, overheard that, and shook his head.

“Indeed!” said Thorin, amused. “But will not your people be disheartened when it becomes plain there are but seven of us?”

“I do not think so; for after all if you do help us, it shall not be with deeds of arms. But in the meanwhile, this tale shall give my people hope, and strengthen their courage. That has to be worth almost as much as one hundred axemen.”

Thorin gave her a long look, and thought that she was wise. “Well, my lady,” he said, “I have but one axeman with me, but I daresay he at least is worth one hundred of my kind.” And with that he gave Dwalin a brotherly clap across the shoulders. There was a _clang_ of metal.

“One hundred of your kind, truly?” said she, eyeing up Dwalin. How many axes did a Dwarf _need_? “I am inclined to believe that. I should very much like to see you fight, sir,” she told him. It must be quite a sight.

“I’ll be happy to oblige, lady” answered Dwalin, and showed his teeth. She decided to assume that was a smile. “And if you’ve got any spare Orcs, just send them my way. It’s been a bit quiet back home lately, and I miss the sport. I’d rather be hewing Orc-necks than stone!” said he, and roared with laughter.

 


	6. Chapter 5

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 5**

 

The lady Helmwyn ordered food to be brought to the Dwarves, and bade them take their ease in the great hall, and rest awhile; and she repaired to her chamber, took off her heavy mantle and her golden circlet, and sat down to think.

So this was the legendary Thorin Oakenshield. To think that of all the Dwarves that roamed Eriador, Amleth would chance upon him. Indeed, she began to wonder if this were truly the work of chance, or whether it were not some design of Gandalf’s. However that may be, she was glad of his coming. Not only did she now have the aid of the skilled dwarven craftsmen she so desperately needed; here was also a mighty warrior and a great captain, whose name struck fear into the black hearts of the Orcs. Their presence, and his, certainly filled _her_ heart with quite a few axemen’s worth of courage.

Helmwyn had need of it. She worried about the cold spring, and the rain, and whether the crops would be blighted; she worried about proud lords keeping the price of timber high and not paying their taxes; she worried about the Mark’s trade with Gondor; but most of all she worried about the Orcs. She could see no end to their depredations. However many were slain, there always seemed to be more, and yet more of them. Her people might be strong, but they were weary; and she had wondered how to speak of hope and courage to them, when her own hope and courage were failing.

But now courage was rekindled in her, for it seemed that something decisive, something lasting could be done for the Mark, and it was within reach. She only hoped that she could persuade the Dwarves to stay, for they had yet to agree on terms. And so she set to work, and searched through her books and scrolls, gathering all she could find concerning the Hornburg.

***

The Dwarves sat around one of the long tables near the fire, and a (to them) light meal was brought. It was plain but good fare, such as was usual in the Mark: cured meats, strong yellow cheese, black bread, and golden ale; and Dwalin belched appreciatively, and seemed content.

They spoke quietly, and in their own tongue; for, although they had been treated as honoured guests, and were beginning to feel better at ease, the Dwarves were still keenly aware that they were in a strange land, very far from their home and kin.

“So, lads, what d’you make of it so far?” Thorin asked his companions.

Balin eyed the bronze sconces, and the tapestries, and the gilded carvings that adorned the hall, as indeed did the others. “I like it well enough,” he said. “Let’s hope these people are as straight in their business dealings as they are courteous.”

“Aye, they can try to soften us up all they like,” said Hogni darkly; “I’ll trust them when I’ve got gold in my hand.”

Balin thought that was a rather blunt way of putting it, but it wasn’t so far removed from his own opinion. He glanced at Thorin, but Thorin merely smiled.

***

After a while the lady Helmwyn came to them, with books and maps under one arm, and joined them at the table. Her manner was friendly, and much less formal than it had been earlier; and the Dwarves moved along the bench to make room for her. She asked whether they had everything they required, and Dwalin nodded in assent, for he had discovered a plate of oat and honey biscuits, and his mouth was full.

“Before we begin, might I ask you to tell me your names again?” said the lady. “Forgive me, Masters, but I fear they sound strange to our ears, and I would not mistake them.”

She spoke to them all, and learned their names, and asked them about themselves, and their crafts. And though they gave her no details, she guessed that every single one of them had suffered great losses when the dragon came, or during their exile, or in the war with the Orcs.

She learned that Andvari came from a family of miners, but that his younger brother Regin had had to learn carpentry for the simple reason that there was little enough mining to be done after the Mountain had been taken. Those two had a strong bond, forged in hardship, but it was not one of kindness.

She was surprised to learn that Dwalin, the huge warrior, was the brother of Balin, the small, shrewd-looking one with the iron-grey beard; and judging by their speech and their garments, she guessed that they were nobly born, and had once been wealthy.

Black Hogni was a bitter and cantankerous one, and the days were long past where he hewed the likenesses of kings out of the living rock of Erebor; but whether this was the cause of that remained unclear.

Snorri had been spared from the fighting by his short-sightedness, and his shock of fair hair and his wispy beard gave him a genial air. But he was also a little odd, and doodled in his notebook, and muttered to himself; and Helmwyn wondered whether he had always been thus.

And then there was the lord Thorin. He was…not aloof exactly, for his manner to his companions was brotherly; but withdrawn somehow, as though he were older than his years, or carried a great burden. He sat quietly, and watched, and listened, smoking his pipe; and Helmwyn was amused to see that he shared this habit with Gandalf.

It seemed Balin was reading her thoughts, for he asked her: “I am curious, my lady, as to how you came to know so much about the history and ways of our people; for we dwell far to the north, and Men care not to know about us, no more that we care to tell them about ourselves.”

“All that I know, I learned from Gandalf,” answered she. “Perhaps you know him?”

Balin shook his head. “I have not heard that name before.”

“Then perhaps you know him by another name, for he travels far and wide bearing news and counsel to those who would hear it – and I daresay to those who would not. He is clad in grey, and wears a pointed hat, and carries a staff. I would say he is an old man, but some say he has been an old man for so long that there must be more to him than meets the eye, and I am inclined to believe that; though what he truly may be, I do not know. Some say that he is a wizard, and are wary of him; but I trust him, and have ever profited from his advice.”

“I think I know of him, or of someone like him,” said Thorin, “though he is called by other names in the north. A grey wanderer with a staff, you say, who meddles in the affairs of the mighty, and then disappears and is not seen again for an age?”

“Aye, that would be him.”

“I believe my grandfather mentioned him. But Thrór was ever suspicious of meddlers, and did not remember him kindly. But he advised you to send for my people?”

“Not as such. But he planted the idea in my mind, and waited for it to unfold by itself, for that it his way.”

“Then perhaps his advice is not altogether bad. I should like to meet him.”

“I am surprised you have not. He speaks well of your people,” said Helmwyn with a smile; and though this was true, she did not add that Gandalf had also warned her about the stiff necks, short tempers and acquisitiveness of the Dwarves.

***

They pushed the plates and dishes aside to make room for the maps; and Helmwyn unfolded a sheet of parchment, and pulled up the sleeves of her gown, and pointed to Edoras, and the Westfold, and the Hornburg. She then opened a leatherbound volume containing songs and histories of the Mark, and showed them a miniature of Helm’s Deep; and the Dwarves huddled over the book to have a better look at the drawing.

“This is but a crude rendering,” said Helmwyn, “and the proportions are not right; but it might give you an idea of how the fortress is laid out.”

“What are we talking about here?” asked Hogni. “Limestone?”

“Aye, grey limestone, such as is found in our mountains,” answered the lady.

“And how far away’s your quarry?”

“The stones of the Hornburg were quarried from the Deep behind it. This served a double purpose, as it made the walls of the chasm steeper, guarding it from any attack from the mountains.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, lady,” said Dwalin. “I’ve seen Orcs scuttle down sheer cliffs.”

“At least we won’t have to haul blocks of stone halfway across the plains,” muttered Hogni. “Snorri, how about hoists?”

Snorri looked up from the notebook where he had been scribbling. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, I’ve got this design for an ox-hoist, but I can adapt it for horses if you like.”

“That is a wondrous machine, Master Snorri,” said the lady, “but I fear we cannot bring any beasts beyond the Deeping-Wall; for if a causeway leads to the Hornburg, there are only narrow stairs that lead thence down into the Deep.”

“Really? Well in that case, why not make a device to lower horses from the castle?”

He began drawing at once, and Helmwyn was impressed, although she seriously doubted whether any horse would allow itself to be hoisted thus. 

She was about to tell the Dwarves about the system of caves that lay behind Helm’s Deep, when there was a commotion at the door, and a gruff voice called “Let me trough, you halfwits! I’ve come to see the King!”. A stout, red-faced man strode into the hall, followed closely by a flurry of guards who were unsure whether to stop him or no. 

“Oh no, not now,” sighed Helmwyn, and braced herself. “Lord Wulfhere!” she called. “How kind of you to come at last.”


	7. Chapter 6

**THE LINDEN TREE**  

**Chapter 6**

 

The guards did their best to manoeuvre the irate lord towards the table where Helmwyn sat with the Dwarves.

“I came because I was summoned,” said he. “And pretty rudely, too.” He glanced at the Dwarves, and, not knowing what to make of them, decided to ignore them. They were unlikely to be important. He would have ignored the lady too had it not been for the soldiers.

The Dwarves eyed the lord’s rich clothes, and his belly, and his sword, and took an instant dislike to him.

“You _did_ send away our messengers unanswered,” said Helmwyn.

“Well, here I am,” said Wulfhere irritably. “Where is the King?”

“Where do you think? He rode out to hunt Orcs.”

“What about his sons?”

“If they are not in Aldburg, why, I imagine they must be hunting Orcs.”

“Is there then no-one here I can talk to?” bellowed Wulfhere.

Helmwyn gave him an icy look.

“Of course. Fetch Osric,” she told one of the guards.

She was sitting on a bench and surrounded by Dwarves, and there was no way she could rise with dignity to face the man at eye-height. So she decided to make the most of it, and did not offer lord Wulfhere a seat, or a drink; but instead she sat at her ease while he paced like an angry bear.

“It was King Aldor who gifted your forefathers their land, was it not?” she asked with feigned lightness.

“Aye,” he replied gruffly, not interested in wasting his breath on this woman.

“For their unbending loyalty to the Mark, and to the House of Eorl, was it not?”

“Aye. What of it?” he barked. Evidently, subtelty was lost on him.

“My lord,” Helmwyn went on sweetly, “I understand that a man of your age can no longer be expected to ride out; but tell me, how many men from your retinue did _you_ send to the Westfold?”

Wulfhere stopped pacing and glared at her. They both knew he was younger than the King; and they both knew he had sent but three knights and a dozen farmhands. “What means this impertinence?” he growled.

“It means, my lord, that you were summoned here on my orders, and that you shall answer to me, whether you like it or not.”

“ _You_ summoned me?” said Wulfhere, and laughed.

The Dwarves exchanged glances. Whatever happened next, it was bound to be entertaining.

***

The guard came back escorting a little man in a black robe carrying a ledger almost as big as he was. Judging by the worried look on his face, he was dreading the scene to come.

“Ah, Osric,” said the lady. “And you brought the ledger. How thoughtful. Lord Wulfhere seems rather upset by our summons. Perhaps you might remind him of the figures that raised our concerns?”

“Er. Yes. Certainly.” The little man looked around for a space to set down his ledger, found none among the maps and crockery, and leafed through the thick volume as best he could, resting it awkwardly on one arm. “Here we are. Lord Wulfhere, a hundred acres of woodland in the Folde… Ah yes. We noticed an almost threefold increase in the price of timber from your lands over the past five years, whereas the tax revenue…let me see…has remained stagnant…”

Helmwyn’s eyes did not leave the lord Wulfhere, who was going increasingly puce in the face. He had relied on the King’s good nature and the incompetence of his stewards for many years now, and almost felt genuinely entitled to make a profit from his lands.

“My lord,” said Helmwyn, “you may not have noticed this, in the comfort of the Folde; but the Mark is at war. Wood is needed to repair the dwellings that were destroyed, and to build walls and defences around the homesteads in the Westfold. But wood is scarce in that region, and what woodlands there were are now depleted. We must ask you to lower your prices.”

“I’m still lord in my own lands, and will set the prices as I please. And if it _is_ too dear for the people of the Westfold, why don’t they go to Fangorn?” sneered Wulfhere. “There’s plenty of timber there, for free!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Helmwyn.

Snorri tugged at Helmwyn’s sleeve and showed her a page from his notebook. “I’ve got this design for a sawmill, if you’re interested. This is just the basic mechanism, but you could add more gearing and have several saws working at the same time. And with a crank _here_ you can adjust the width of the planks…”

“What is he talking about?” said Wulfhere, bewildered by the interruption.

“Well, it makes sense,” said Balin. “You sell the wood cheaper, but you sell more of it.”

“What a splendid idea,” beamed Helmwyn. “My lord Wulfhere, you shall have the honour of building and maintaining a sawmill in the name of the King. At your own expense, of course. Master Snorri shall provide the plans. Price of timber to be cut by two thirds – no, wait, make that three quarters – and your arrears, of course; and we may persuade the King to be lenient about the war profiteering and the tax evasion. Do we have an agreement?”

Wulfhere stared at the lady and the Dwarves in turn in total disbelief. “This is outrageous!” he bellowed.

“Indeed it is,” said Helmwyn.

“I won’t stand for this! I will not be mocked by a … a girl and a bunch of Dwarves! Let me through, you lot, get me my horse. I’m going to the King with this!”

“You will stay, my lord, for I am not yet done with you,” said Helmwyn coolly. She gestured to the guards, and they politely yet firmly blocked Wulfhere’s way. “Whilst I commend your eagerness to go and see for yourself what goes on in the Westfold, I must advise you against this course of action. The King is a generous man, and free with his love and trust; but when that trust is betrayed, he does not forgive. I, on the other hand, neither love nor trust you, but if you agree to my terms, the King need never be troubled with this matter.”

“The King and I were brothers in arms, so don’t be too sure of yourself, young lady!” roared Wulfhere.

“Oh, you were, were you? And yet you come armed into the King’s hall, and speak rudely to the King’s daughter, and would cheat the King of your service.” The Dwarves sensed that the lady’s simmering anger was about to come to a boil; and Dwalin and Hogni, who sat with her, nudged Snorri and gingerly pushed back the bench to let her rise.

“I offered you the hand of friendship, my lord,” said she; “though you are blinded with pride and will not see it. But I shall tell you what my other hand holds: it holds the King’s sword!” and now did she raise her voice. “The eyes of the King may be on the Westfold at present, but do not _ever again_ think that the House of Eorl is blind, or idle. To rule is to serve, my lord; and should you prove unworthy, your rule shall be stripped from you. Do you understand me now?”

Wulfhere tensed. He was suddenly very much aware that the guards surrounding him carried spears. He glared at the lady, but her face was stern as steel.

“What do you want?” he spat. “My balls on a plate?”

“I told you. Wood. Men. Coin. _Loyalty_.”

Thorin grinned. He was enjoying this.

Wulfhere stood there fuming, but said nothing. He was outnumbered, and he had learned that bluster would not work; but Helmwyn doubted whether he were truly cowed. She sat down again.

“I am glad we could discuss this, my lord; but now, if you don’t mind, my guests and myself have work to do. Thank you, Osric. The lord Wulfhere is leaving,” she told the guards, and looked pointedly at the map while Wulfhere cursed and stormed out of the hall, and the steward scuttled gratefully away with his ledger.

***

Helmwyn had laid her hands flat on the table, but the Dwarves could see that they were shaking with anger. “I’ll have some of that ale, Master Dwalin, if you’d be so kind,” said she, and Dwalin poured her a cup, which she drank gratefully. “I must apologise for this scene, Masters, but I fear it was long overdue.”

“Nothing to apologise for. It was fun to watch,” said Dwalin, and the others concurred. After all, she had given them a jolly good show of authority – for a woman. Helmwyn raised an eyebrow, and let it pass.

“And thank you, Master Snorri, Master Balin, for your support.”

“It was a pleasure,” said Balin. “Can’t stand arrogant swine like him.”

“You showed him,” said Snorri encouragingly.

“Oh, I do not think he is beaten,” said Helmwyn sombrely.

“If he is wise, he will heed your warning,” said Thorin.

“But if he is not?”

“Then he must face the King’s displeasure.”

Helmwyn took another swig of ale. “At this time, we have need of every man in the Westfold. I do not wish to send the King’s men to fight their brothers on account of this lord. Let us hope it shall not come to this.”

“An open confrontation will cost him more than compliance,” said Thorin.

“I hope his pride will let him see that.” She drained the cup. “Holy Hunter, how I hate this.”

“What mean you?”

“Anger. It is a show of weakness.”

“I disagree,” said Thorin, refilling his pipe. “I find it sharpens the senses and focuses the mind.”

He looked so poised and controlled as he said that; yet Helmwyn sensed the power behind his brooding exterior, and wondered what he must be like when roused.

“And what makes _you_ angry, my lord?” she asked.

“Me? Oh, but I am angry all the time,” said Thorin with a faint smile. “Though it is not a hot anger. I do not forgive and do not forget the wrongs of my people. It drives me onwards.”

“Some would call that honour, and resolve, and memory.”

Thorin considered that. He gave Helmwyn a searching look through the pipe-smoke. “Is there any difference, I wonder?”


	8. Chapter 7

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 7**

 

The following morning, while the Dwarves were breaking their fast, the lady Helmwyn appeared, dressed as a Rider and girt with a sword. Dwalin nearly choked on his porridge1. She was in high spirits, and wished them all a good morrow, and gave orders that the Riders ready themselves, for she was eager to depart. She joined the Dwarves at the table, and told them of the ride that lay before them.

“Today we ride for Lindburg,” said she, “for there dwells my kinsman Telramund, the Lord of the Westfold. It lies not far from Helm’s Deep, and thither shall we ride tomorrow, that you may see the fastness at last.”

Dwalin’s spirits sank at the prospect of more riding.

“Come, Masters!” said the lady at last. “We must ride if we wish to be in Lindburg by nightfall!” and with that she rose, and they rose with her out of courtesy. Dwalin had not even finished his breakfast. But the lady had eaten even less, and he wondered how she could manage on an apple, an egg and a slice of black bread. He hastily wolfed down a few more of slices of ham, and pocketed some oat biscuits for the road. Let’s hope they have proper food in that Lindburg place, he thought. He braced himself and followed the others to the stables.

The stables of Edoras were magnificent, more splendid indeed than many of the dwellings they had seen; for the Eorlingas held their horses in high regard, and their horses were finer than those bred by any other people. But for the Dwarves they had found ponies; but since those ponies were to ordinary ponies what the _mearas_ were to other horses, the Dwarves were content. The lady also made sure that they were given leather capes, for it rained often in the Mark, and without a cape their ride would be a miserable one.

Helmwyn greeted her horse like an old friend. It was a tall grey beast, and had the most knowing expression the Dwarves had ever seen on a horse. “He is a smug old thing,” said she affectionately, “but he can keep his head in a fight.” Regin asked what the horse was called, but the lady merely smiled, and did not answer.2

When she saw all were ready, she mounted up, and the horns were sounded, and they set off and rode down the path and out of Edoras, and the cheers of the people went with them.

Soon they were riding swiftly along a well-marked road that led north-westward. It was a bright morning, but the wind was strong; indeed it seemed the wind never abated in the Mark. The grass was rich and dew-soaked, and the mountains marched slowly past on their left; and even the Dwarves were beginning to feel a joy in riding through this fair open country. But soon enough, it began to rain, and their enthusiasm was dampened; but the lady raised her hood, and laughed, and rode on.

They allowed themselves a few short rests, although these were mostly for the sake of the Dwarves, for the Rohirrim and their horses counted that no great distance. At noon they sat in the tall grass and shared a cold meal of bread, cheese and dried meat. The Dwarves wondered whether this were horse, but thought it better not to ask; but it was lean and good, and they ate it anyway.

The lady Helmwyn sent some Riders ahead, to warn the lord Telramund of their coming. She told the Dwarves a little more about Lindburg, and said that it was a fair place, and that she was fond of it indeed, for she had spent much time there as a girl, and liked to do so still; for the lord Telramund was wedded with the King’s sister, the lady Ortrud, and they had ever welcomed her in their home, and loved her as a daughter.

After noon they set off again, and something dawned on the Dwarves that they had not fully realised before: the lady was not merely being escorted by the Riders, she was leading them. For a woman to dress as a man for travel, or in times of peril, had become common enough among their own people, out of necessity in their exile; and thus her attire had not surprised them overmuch. But for a woman to lead a band of soldiers, that was something else altogether.

***

Riders were seen in the distance, approaching towards them; and Helmwyn sent out scouts. When they returned, they announced that the King was returning to Edoras with his Riders, and she rejoiced and hurried on.

The two _éored_ met on the road, and the Riders greeted the King with cries of _‘Léofa!’_ ; and the lady Helmwyn rode up to her father. His beard was white, but he was a mighty man; and he smiled widely when he saw her. “Well met, my daughter!” he cried, and they dismounted; and the King removed his splendid helm, and kissed his daughter on the brow.

“Father,” said she, and smiled, “I am glad to see you safely returned.”

“Your scout tells me you are riding for Lindburg. Were you getting restless all alone in Edoras?”

“Aye, Father; but if I am restless, it is with joy! Behold, Amleth returned from his errand, and brought us long-expected guests!”

She turned, and the Dwarves, who had also dismounted, came to stand before the King.

King Brytta laughed to see them, and went to clap every single one of them on the shoulder. “Well met, I say to you too, Masters! This is merry news indeed. I must admit, I thought good Amleth had been sent on a fool’s errand, and that your people existed only in songs. But my daughter was adamant, and I could not deny her, so grave was her request. But to see you now, living and strong under the sun, is a great joy and comfort. My daughter has great hopes for you, and so do all my people.”

“Father,” Helmwyn told him, “the Dwarves have done us a great honour indeed; for here is Thorin Thráinsson, the prince of their people. He and his companions have fought long and valiantly against the Orcs, and we could not wish for better help.”

“Orc-slayers too?” the King beamed, showing his even, white teeth. “Then, my lord, you and your companions are twice welcome in the Mark!” he roared, and clasped Thorin’s unresisting arm. The Dwarves were a little taken aback by the King’s bluff and familiar manner, but they couldn’t help liking him.

King Brytta turned again to Helmwyn: “Well, my child, I shall leave you to it. Are you intending to stay in Lindburg?”

“Aye, for a time. I shall be needed there.”

“You are needed in Edoras too! But you are right, the Westfold requires all of our attention. I shall ride out again soon enough, and see you then, my dear. In the meantime, promise me you’ll take good care of yourself.”

“Aye, Father, I will do my best.”

“See that you do! And if your best isn’t good enough, tell Telramund he shall answer for it!” He was teasing her, for he knew that she chafed at his concern.

“I would answer for myself, Father, and thus shall I make doubly sure of my own safety.”

“As you will,” said he, and kissed her on the brow once more. It was plain she was the apple of his eye.

“Father, there is one thing I must warn you about. Beware Wulfhere. He was most displeased that I stuck my nose in his affairs.”

“Wulfhere, that old rascal! Worry not, my daughter, his bark is worse than his bite.” Helmwyn shook her head. “Fare thee well, child! And you, masters!” He re-mounted, and called to Helmwyn: “Farewell! Kiss your aunt for me!” and with that, he rode away to Edoras, and his _éored_ followed in a thundering of hooves.

Helmwyn and the Dwarves got back into the saddle. “An impressive man, that King of the Mark,” commented Balin.

“Huge personality,” said Dwalin, which, coming from him, was a great compliment.

“Aye, he has a great and generous heart, and the people love him,” said Helmwyn with a fond smile. Plainly, so did she, though she found him too generous at times.

***

The sun was setting when at last they reached Lindburg. The home of the lords of Westfold lay in a sheltered vale at the foot of the mountains; and it was a fair place indeed, for the surrounding hills were gentle and sloping, and there were trees and orchards and beehives, and a golden haze lingered in the sky above. There were many houses and buildings before the hall, for it seemed a market town had sprung up there; but there were great stables, and barracks for many Riders, and about it all there was a wall.

Folk greeted them as they rode through the gate towards the hall. It was a busy place, and seemed prosperous; but Thorin noticed that every farmer and every craftsman bore a weapon. They crossed another gate, came to a green stretch of grass before the hall; and there was a fountain, and beside it stood a tall old linden tree, its leaves edged with gold in the last rays of the sun.

They left their horses at the stables, and when they walked back to the hall, the lord Telramund had come out to meet them. He was a tall, lean man, with grizzled hair and a weathered face, and an air of quiet authority. He smiled as they approached.

“Helmwyn, child! Your Riders bring glad news!” called he, and embraced the lady like a daughter.

“Aye, my uncle, and I bring guests!”

Telramund looked at the Dwarves; and if he found them strange, he did not show it. “I bid you welcome, Masters. I hope you will stay with us for a little while, for indeed we have long waited for you! Come, and sit at my table, and we shall talk.”

He invited them inside, and they were greeted by Telramund’s wife, the lady Ortrud, a strong, capable woman with the same bright smile as her brother the King. “Sit, Masters, and rest yourselves! For if what they say is true, you have a long road behind you, and much labour before you!” and at her bidding, food was brought, and ale.

“Let us not be hasty, my aunt, for our guests have yet to see the Hornburg” said Helmwyn diplomatically.

“We are looking forward to seeing it; for judging by what the lady Helmwyn has told us, it is very great” said Thorin.

“Aye, great it certainly is, though not as strong as it once was,” said Telramund; and while they ate, he told them a little of the history of the Hornburg, and the great battles that had been fought there. And he told them of the proud defiance of Helm the Hammerhand, the unconquered warrior who defied the Dunlendings during the Long Winter. So great was his renown that the Deep had been named after him, as had many children in the Mark, including the lady Helmwyn. It was said that the Hornburg had never been taken, not while there were men inside to defend it.

“But the years have not been kind to it,” Telramund went on; “and the Long Winter least of all. I fear that our clumsy attempts at mending it have only focused on the outer defences; but the inner walls were neglected, and have fallen into disrepair. But now, the Orcs are attacking from their hiding-places in the mountains, and our outer defences will not avail us.”

“And then there are the caves,” said Helmwyn.

“Aye, the caves. Perhaps you will find it more feasible to fortify the caves than to repair the Hornburg. They would make a fine refuge from the Orcs, and provide storage for our winter supplies; but I for one would be grieved to give up the Hornburg as beyond repair.”

The lady Ortrud saw that everyone around the table was grave, and tried to lighten the mood. “Masters, if you do decide to help repair the Hornburg, I have one request to you. Do not make it too comfortable, or else my lord and husband will want to dwell there.”

“It was ever the seat of the lords of Westfold, my lady,” said Telramund.

“Aye, my lord, and it is a grim, cold place that only sees the sun at noon, so high are the cliffs on either side,” she teased him, and it was plain that those two were fond of each other, even after long years together. But the lady Ortrud had been a shieldmaiden in her youth, and knew well enough the reality of war. She spoke to them now in earnest. 

“Masters,” she said to the Dwarves, “I am confident the people of the Mark will be able to withstand the Orcs; for they have always lived with raids on their borders, and every farmer knows how to swing a sword; aye, and the women and children too. But they cannot fight on an empty belly. The Mark has known famine before, but I would not see our people suffer that again. Help us but strengthen one place, where we may keep stores, and we shall take care of the rest.” The lady Ortrud spoke passionately, and her fierce green eyes were shining. “You will not find us ungrateful. I know the King well, for he his my brother, and you will see that he is as open-handed as the tales make him.”

“Aye, my aunt, and that is I why fear it is I who must settle this, and ensure that there be still some gold in the vaults when the summer is over,” said Helmwyn with a wry smile; “for the King is generous to a fault.”

A silence fell, and Thorin felt torn between honour and necessity; for if he had come on this venture hoping for gold, he understood the plight of the Mark only too well, and wished to help. “I fear the three of you drive a hard bargain,” he said, “as indeed does all the Mark, for your welcome has been a courteous one; and indeed few better than us Dwarves understand the relentless enemy you face. I beg you, let us speak no more of this until we have seen the fortress, and its state of disrepair, and can judge how long the necessary works would take.”

They agreed on that; and though Balin looked sharply at Thorin, he said nothing. They talked of other things, but Thorin sat in silence, half-listening to the others, busy with his own thoughts. After a while, the Dwarves noticed a young girl with freckles skulking behind a pillar, watching them. She would peep out of the shadows, only to dart back again when she saw she had been noticed. The lady Ortrud called to her: “Ortlind, come out and join us. There is no need to be shy. These are Dwarves, and they will not bite” said she, and shot a bright smile at Dwalin, who blushed. But the girl did not come out, and ran off instead.

“That was our daughter,” said Telramund with a wide grin. “Do not be offended, I pray you; she is a shy thing, and wary of strangers.”

“Yet she cannot resist having a peek at them,” said Ortrud. “She will grow out of it. You used to be like that, after all” said she to Helmwyn, “and you didn’t turn out too badly.”

“Have you tried giving her a wooden sword yet?” asked Helmwyn. “You gave me one when I was about her age. It certainly helped me communicate.” They all laughed at that; but Helmwyn sat quietly smiling, and sipped an infusion of linden-blossoms, for she slept fretfully. Thorin wondered how she had been as a child; probably grave-eyed, and grown-up beyond her years. Like all the children in the Mark, he reflected.

Soon after she wished them all a good night, and retired; and the lady Ortrud rose to check that the Dwarves’ sleeping quarters were ready, and Dwalin’s eyes followed her out of the room.

“Mahal’s hammers, what a woman!” said Dwalin, making sure Telramund was out of earshot. Thorin raised an eyebrow, and smiled, and shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Now, even though she may be too tall and quite lacking a beard, a handsome young woman wearing close-fitting leather garments is bound to make an impression on even the stoniest of Dwarves.
> 
> (2) This was a bit of an embarrassment. The horse had once been called something sensible, but now only answered to ‘Wís-bráec’; that is, ‘Smartypants’. Helmwyn’s brothers had called her that until she was big enough to kick them where it hurt, and the name had stuck to the horse. It did rather suit him.


	9. Chapter 8

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 8**

 

The lord Telramund rode to his fastness in Helm’s Deep the following morning; and with him rode the lady Helmwyn, the Dwarves, and a small company of Riders. The path took them around the foothills of the White Mountains; and the lord Telramund said that there was a shorter road, that led through the hills. But though these were but sparsely wooded, they were wary of Orcs, and would not risk using that road unless they were many, and only in broad daylight.

They had ridden for less than an hour when they rounded a hill and saw the Deeping-Coomb open before them, like a great gash cut between two shoulders of the Mountains; and behind the Deep there reared the snowy head of mighty Thrihyrne, their northernmost peak. The riders swept gladly down into the Coomb, and the Dwarves beheld the Deeping-Wall at last, curving across the chasm, and at its end the Hornburg, looking as though it had been hewed out of the rock rather than built by the hands of Men. It was a grim and forbidding place, but the hearts of the Dwarves were lifted when they saw it, for they had a love of mountains, and mighty works of stone.

They crossed Helm’s Dike, and horns were sounded to greet their coming; and they rode through a great camp, for that was where the greater number of Riders were stationed who guarded the Westfold. As they approached, the Dwarves could see the mighty blocks of stone that the Sea-Kings had assembled, and how excellently they had been fitted. But they also saw that the fastness was old, even according to their reckoning, and weathered; and parts of it had cracked and crumbled.

They made their way in single file up the causeway into the Hornburg, and there dismounted. They were greeted by one of Telramund’s captains, Grimwald; and he marvelled to see such strange visitors, but was glad of their coming.

Hogni set to work at once, and took out rod, rope and brass instruments; and Andvari and Regin went with him to begin surveying and mapping Helm’s Deep. Balin joined them to take down the figures. Snorri had produced his notebook and was already devising more ingenious hoists and cranes to move and raise the stones. Telramund, Helmwyn and Grimwald showed Thorin and Dwalin around the battlements, and the Keep, and took them out of the Hornburg and up onto the Deeping-Wall, for they were warriors and had a keen interest in the defences of this place.

They walked the Wall, and Telramund pointed to the weak points and fallen stones. The Hornburg had stood there since long before the Northmen had settled in the Mark, and the years had taken their toll even on its mighty structure; but the final blows had been dealt by the Long Winter and the floods that had followed it. The ice had cracked the stones, and the swollen Deeping-Stream had drowned the foot of the Wall; and now the Wall was subsiding, and part of the inner battlements of the Hornburg had caved in.

After a while, Dwalin wandered off to explore on his own, and Telramund and Grimwald talked of the patrol rota for the coming week; but the lady Helmwyn remained with the lord Thorin, and waited warily for him to speak; for now surely would come the dreaded haggling over the terms, and his final decision as to whether his people would help or no. And though the Dwarves seemed glad in that place, and eager to set to work, she feared that all this yet might come to naught.

Thorin gazed long at the Hornburg, and at the Deep behind it where the stones had been quarried; but now his brow was furrowed.

“Well, what think you, my lord?” asked Helmwyn. “How like you the once-great fastness of Helm’s Deep?”

“I like it well, my lady,” said he; “but I fear this will be a great undertaking. Had I a year, and a hundred of my kin, I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water! But we do not have a year, and there are but seven of us, and only one of us is a skilled stonecutter.” Now that he saw how great was the task, Thorin regretted agreeing to follow Amleth so light-heartedly. Not because he wished to dodge the task, but because seeing the Hornburg, he found it fair, and wished to do it justice. Indeed, he began to feel ashamed of the lightness, bordering on contempt, with which he had embarked on this venture, with only six ill-assorted companions.

“Now that I see the Hornburg, I feel we should have gathered more of my people, and better skilled with stone,” said he. “But we were scattered, and your Riders looked long for us, and there was no time to seek out others, even if they could have been brought hither.”

“Then we shall have to do without your one hundred stonecutters, my lord, just as we must do without your one hundred axemen. But you shall have half the men of Westfold at your disposal,” said the lady Helmwyn, and pointed to the camp that spread before the Wall; “and I daresay some of them know how to wield a chisel, and can be taught, and overseen.”

“Aye, that is the only way. But did you not say that your people did not build in stone?”

“Of course there are some stonecutters, though they are not many, and to your eyes their skills may seem crude. There must also be some men from the mountain-valleys, where wood is scarce, and folk build stone houses; though mountain-dwellers are few in the Mark, for we are horse-people first and foremost, and they were the first to fall prey to the Orcs. Perhaps there are even some miners, if any remain.”

“That is well. Let all such men be called, and we shall see how many there are.”

“It shall be done, my lord. Also, there may be skilled men still in the villages, too old to fight, or otherwise unable. They could be called hither.”

Thorin nodded in assent. Helmwyn rejoiced, for it looked like he was going to agree; and spoke to her uncle and the captain, and told them Thorin’s request that all those men skilled in stonework should be gathered. Telramund seconded that, and Grimwald made off for the camp.

Helmwyn and Telramund exchanged a look, and they were hopeful, but still cautious; and they went back to the lord Thorin. He was thoughtful; but then he asked them:

“What did you mine?” It was a natural question for a Dwarf to ask.

“Copper and iron,” answered Telramund. “Not much, but enough to keep us in swords and spearheads. Most of my people are armed already, for in every household of the Mark, weapons have been handed down -”

A great bellow rang out in the Deep, like the roar of some monstrous beast. Thorin and Helmwyn froze, then looked around for the cause of the clamour. Thorin’s hand was on the haft of his axe, and he was ready to fight, or flee, for he was reminded at once of the day the dragon came to Erebor. That day too had been a bright day, and he had been standing on strong battlements and looking out over fair lands. He shook off the memory and focused on the present danger.

The deep echoes boomed against the walls of the Deep, but there was now another sound as well. Helmwyn looked down from the Wall and saw that the men were cheering, and beating their spears against their shields. She understood, and laughed.

“What in Durin’s name was that?” growled Thorin.

“That, my lord, is why it is called the Hornburg!” said she, and pointed to the top of the tower. Dwalin stood up there, and from afar, he seemed to be laughing and waving at them. They thought they heard him call “Sorry!”

Telramund was smiling. “There is a great horn built into the tower, to strike fear into the hearts of the assailants,” said he. “It seems Master Dwalin was unable to resist.”

Thorin let go of his axe, and frowned, for he had known too many real alarms to find false alarms amusing.

“So that is what those strange openings are for,” he rumbled. “I knew they were a little large for drainpipes. It cannot rain _that_ much, even here.”

“You should see the Mark in winter!” laughed Telramund.

But Helmwyn said: “In truth, I am glad to have heard it; for I had not heard it before.”

“Indeed you have not,” said her uncle, “for it never sounds but in the hour of great peril, and there are but few among our people with the lungs to wind it. It does make a mighty roar!”

Thorin saw the lady’ delight, and the lord’s, and that of the men, and of his companions; and indeed he sensed that there was a hope, a business and a purpose about this place. He too could not help but like it; for after so many years in the wilderness, he was glad to have good, well-hewn rock under his feet once more, and tall mountains behind him. Indeed, he liked this place a great deal better than the eroded heights of Ered Luin. The memory of old fear faded in the glad sunlight, and Thorin decided to talk to his companions; and if they felt as he did, then they would try and meet this challenge.

But then the lady Helmwyn said to him: “My lord, would you now like to see the caves?”

***

They took their midday meal in the camp before the Wall; but while the men around them talked and laughed and went about their business, the Dwarves sat and ate in silence, for they had all been moved by the beauty of the caves, and wished to dwell on the memory undisturbed.

‘The caves’, the people of the Mark had called them; and indeed they were caves, carved into the mountain over slow ages by the Deeping-Stream, which was now but a rivulet, but must once have been a mighty torrent of meltwater. The Dwarves had of course seen the sort of strange and intricate shapes that slowly form underground before; but nothing could have prepared them for the loveliness that lay concealed behind the grey and forbidding cliffs of Helm’s Deep.

In the torchlight they had glimpsed translucent sheets of milky stone, and fluted pillars, and crystalline shapes that grew like flowers; and indeed some rooms seemed like the canopy of a lush petrified grove. But fairest of all was the great chamber, where the vast domed vault glittered as though with countless stars, and was mirrored in the still dark waters of an underground lake.

The caves were the refuge of the people of the Mark in times of war, and they said passages led all the way into the mountains beyond. But those escape routes now meant peril, for Orcs were bound to find them, and would use them to raid their stores and harass the Hornburg. The Dwarves would have to map the caves, for they were vast and intricate; and they would need to secure the ways into the mountains, so that they could be blocked off or defended.

And the Dwarves felt a longing to set to work, but also a wistfulness, for having seen the caves, they would have rather dwelt in them and shaped them into the most magnificent halls, than made them into a fortified warehouse for Men. Thorin was already brooding on it, and hatching plans, thinking that if the works on the Hornburg went well, and the Orcs could be kept at bay, then perhaps the King could be persuaded to give them the caves. After all, they said he was a generous ruler.

And if there were copper and iron ore in these mountains, they could make a good living. There would certainly be gemstones. The Mark would be on their doorstep, and there were trade routes to Gondor. Perhaps trade routes could also be established to Ered Luin, if some of his folk remained there. By ship perhaps, down the Isen, and then by sea to the Grey Havens. It would mean dealing with those wretched Elves though.

Grimwald had given out the word that all men skilled in stonework were to assemble; and of these there were about two score, and also some carpenters, for they would need to build hoists. The Dwarves thought that they had enough men to begin with; for more might still be brought in, and the rest of the men could help with the hauling. And strangely, all of them seemed agreed to begin with the works as soon as possible. First, they would need accurate plans, and it was decided that Hogni should finish mapping the Hornburg first, and would then survey the caves.

In the meantime, they would also need tools, and Thorin asked for all competent smiths to report to him. There was a small makeshift smithy in the camp, but that would need to be expanded, and manned, to meet the demand. Telramund said there was a good forge in Lindburg, and that the labour could be divided, and Thorin welcomed his proposal.

When all was agreed, Hogni went off with Balin, Snorri, Andvari and Regin to continue measuring the stronghold, Thorin and Dwalin were left at a loose end, and wandered around the camp. It was well-ordered, and it seemed to them that the Rohirrim were organised and efficient, for they were a warlike people, and had known only short periods of peace. Indeed, they heard the clang of arms, and walked to an open area of grass that served as a training-ground for the soldiers. And there, among the sparring men, they saw Telramund and Helmwyn.

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Dwalin, and Thorin thought much the same.


	10. Chapter 9

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 9**

 

The Lord Telramund was a seasoned warrior, and he sparred with his niece whenever he could, and was putting her through her paces even now. They warmed up with a few passes, but soon they were sparring in earnest, and it was plain that he had taught her, and that they knew each other well. He was taller and stronger than she was, but she was lithe and quick; and soon they were dancing a fierce and graceful dance.

Thorin and Dwalin watched the fight, and could see that she made the best of her stature. She adopted a defensive stance at first, parrying and appearing to give ground, but all the while preserving her strength, and watching; but when she saw an opening, she moved in inside her opponent’s defences. It was a dangerous method, and the lord Telramund knew how she fought, and turned her blows more often than not; but still she was able to land a few vicious blows to unprotected areas.

“Not bad,” said Dwalin after a while. “I wouldn’t have thought it, but not bad. Not grounded enough, though,” he added.

Thorin nodded. “Aye. And that sword’s too long for her,” he added, and the smith in him suspected that the sword was not perfectly balanced.

After a while the fighters stopped, and embraced, laughing. “It is always good to see you, child,” said Telramund fondly.

“And you, uncle,” replied Helmwyn.

“But why must you always try to fight dirty?” said he, now in earnest. “This sort of thing is perilous, as well you know.”

“And why must you always fight honourably? I do not think the Orcs will have your style, or your courtesy.” She smiled still, but her eyes had gone grave.

“Are you accusing me of being soft on you? Very well. Next time I run into some Orcs, I shall catch a few, and bring them back for you to practise on.”

“That would be splendid.” She smiled and hugged her uncle again, but it was plain that they had had this argument before.

“But why not ask our Dwarven friends?” said Telramund as he saw Dwalin and Thorin watching them from the edge of the training-ground. “Masters!” he called; “you have had experience enough with this foe, and I would hear what you have to say on the matter.”

“So indeed would I!” said the lady. “Master Dwalin! Have you any suggestions that might improve my chances?

“Er,” stammered Dwalin. “You fight most elegantly, my lady.”

She grinned, and turned to her uncle: “You see, it seems I do not fight dirty enough!” Then to Dwalin: “Aye, I can dance well enough. But Orcs do not dance.”

“No, lady, they come screaming at you waving spiky maces any old way.”

She could see that Dwalin was reluctant, and decided to tease him.

“There is something I’ve always wanted to know, and perhaps you can give me the answer to this: would there be any point in giving an Orc a knee in the groin?”

“Helmwyn!” exclaimed Telramund.

“Do not be so shocked, uncle. It was aunt Ortrud who taught me that trick.” Dwalin had flushed crimson up to his tattoos. “Well?”

“Wouldn’t know, my lady. Never let them close enough.”

“That is well. But now in earnest, Master Dwalin. You have fought Orcs many times. If there be aught you can tell me that might give me the slightest advantage, I would hear it. For I am well aware that I would not last long in such a fight.”

“Well, there is one thing…” He was clearly embarrassed. “You need to imagine you’ve got-… you need to be…well…closer to the ground, my lady.” The words BALLS OF STEEL! were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them down. He couldn’t say that in front of a lady, even if he’d never, ever get rid of the mental image of Ortrud kneeing an Orc in the groin. “You put your weight too high,” he explained. “You get away with it because you’re usually fighting people who are taller that you, but it won’t be like that with Orcs, lady. They come in all shapes and sizes.”

Helmwyn listened to the huge Dwarf intently, and he forgot his embarrassment and fell back into his favourite part, that of the master-at-arms of princes. “A mêlée with Orcs, quite frankly, it’s a mess. They come at you any old how, and they’ll use whatever they can find as a weapon. If you keep your weight as it is-” He lunged at Helmwyn, and feinted, and pushed her off her feet. She fell with good grace, and got up again, and her eyes shone, for she was eager to learn. She took a defensive stance, and Dwalin came at her again, and again, talking all the while.

“The ground is your friend, lady. Use it as your strength. If you place your weight low enough, and spread it evenly, like so, it’ll make it much harder to knock you over. And if you DO fall, it’s not the end of the world, unless you’re wearing your own weight in plate armour, but it looks like you people are sensible about that. The trick is to keep moving; so if you lose your balance, you fall into a roll _right away_ , and your friend the ground will provide you with new footing; but you’ve got to react quickly.” And he knocked Helmwyn to the ground once more, and she rolled away and rose once more, determined.

The lord Telramund stood beside Thorin, and they watched in silence for a little while. Then Telramund said:

“Do you know, I’ve been telling her off about her balance for years. It would be truly wonderful if your friend got her grounded at last.”

“You’ve certainly come to the right person for that. We Dwarves are _good_ at grounded.”

Telramund smiled, for he was glad that Dwarves could laugh at themselves, and this stern-faced Dwarf in particular.

“Sometimes it takes a new instructor to find just the right image,” he said; and Thorin agreed, and wondered when Dwalin was going to let slip his favourite image - BALLS OF STEEL!

Meanwhile, Helmwyn had wanted Dwalin’s advice on rolling with an edged weapon without eviscerating herself. He agreed that it was a useful thing to know, and he made her practice falling some more. She was grateful for the springy turf of the Mark, but did not complain. Instead, next time she rose, she bowed to Dwalin and asked him formally if he would consider teaching her, as she put it, the basics of Fighting like a Dwarf. Dwalin hesitated.

“Now lady, we Dwarves, we’re compact, and hard to budge, and we like to keep the space around us clear. But you’ve a slight build, my lady, so there’s no point in giving you a battle-axe.” Her heart sank.

He gave her a long look. “But you’re quick, and you can spot weaknesses, and you’re not afraid to move in; and that’s a pretty good start. I think you’re ready to learn something slightly less…formal. Do you like the sound of that?”

She did. Dwalin grinned. “I knew you would. Now let’s see what I can dig out for you in my bag of tricks.”

This was even better that she’d hoped. He was going to teach her to Fight Dirty.

***

Dwalin talked Helmwyn through the motions slowly, and she would repeat them, and try a few variants, and then they would speed them up progressively, and finally they would improvise. Thorin and Telramund saw how absolutely intent she was. She did not rush headlong into the fight, nor did she get frustrated; she made sure she understood, then repeated everything methodically, so that her body might learn, and remember. For she was well aware that her chief flaw, besides her balance, was that she thought too much, and that the split second she always took to weigh her options was the split second she would not have.

Dwalin encouraged her tendency to strike vulnerable areas like the armpit, the groin, the hamstrings or the throat; for such areas were seldom well-covered, especially with Orcs, whose armour seemed intended for deterrence rather that actual protection. Even if a wound to these areas was not immediately fatal, it would weaken the opponent, and give her time to strike a second blow; or if he escaped, the opponent would be maimed, or bleed out within minutes.

In the end, they practised a series of moves that became her particularly well.

“Right, that’s it. Duck, roll, and…HAMSTRING! Well done!” said Dwalin, and went down on one knee. “And now what would you do?”

“Slice your head off while you’re down?”

“Aye, you could do that, but while you raise your sword, I’ll have buried my axe in your ankle. See? Best to make sure the enemy is disarmed.” She lightly tapped him on the forearm with the flat of her blade. “Yes, great. And now if you like you can cut my throat. Lovely! Right, let’s do that again.”

He attacked her, and she ducked and rolled and hamstrung him a couple of times, then she tried rolling to the other side, for a change. “Nice one!” called Dwalin.

Telramund watched, fascinated and rather worried. “I am not sure I approve of this style, my lord, but Master Dwalin has certainly spotted my niece’s natural propensities. Do you think it is wise to encourage them, though?”

“Anything that can give her an edge in a real fight is worth encouraging, my lord,” Thorin answered. Your niece is right about this, that Orcs do not dance.”

Dwalin decided to call it a day. “I can see you’re getting the hang of it! You sleep on it now, and let it all decant. That was a lot of information on your first day.”

“Aye, I shall sleep on it, and tomorrow I shall be black and blue from all that rolling around! But I thank you for your time, Master Dwalin, and would be very glad indeed to continue with this. I have much to think upon!”

“You think too much, lass. Don’t think. Just do!”

Helmwyn wiped the sweat from her brow, and walked towards her uncle; she was flushed and panting, but beaming.

“Child, how I wish your aunt had seen this,” said Telramund. “You would make her proud!”

“Thank you, uncle! No, don’t hug me, I beg you, I am wearing my own weight in sweaty clothes. Just help me get out of this wretched hauberk!”

“When are you going to get some proper armour made?” said Telramund as he helped her pull her heavy mailshirt over her head. “It isn’t as though you _have_ to wear your brother’s cast-offs. You’re always complaining about that thing. It’s too big, and it slows you down.”

“Well, I’ve taken your counsel at last, uncle. There’s a beautiful, light suit of armour being readied in Edoras as we speak.” She went to a water-barrel and splashed cold water onto her face. “But though I always curse this wretched thing, I suppose it keeps me strong. AND close to the ground. I ought to be glad of that!” said she, and laughed.

A little further away, Thorin offered mock congratulations to Dwalin. “My friend,” he said, “you are an outstanding example to the young, and an education all by yourself. Durin’s beard, you were teaching that girl to hamstring!”

“She came up with that all by herself! She’s a natural. I wasn’t sure at first, but the lass has got some nasty instincts. Did you see that?”

“She certainly seemed to enjoy hamstringing you. It was quite a sight,” said Thorin.

“Aye. Great instincts. Pity she thinks too much.”

“It takes some time to unlearn that,” said Thorin with a smile.

“What do you mean? You always fought like a demon when you were learning.”

“I meant the rest of the time.”

“Oh that. That’s not thinking, that’s brooding. You can tell, because nothing new ever comes from brooding”

A circle of men had formed around the sparring-ground, curious to see what the large battle-scarred Dwarf was teaching their lady. Dwalin called out to them: “Show’s over, lads! The lady’s earned her break! Come back tomorrow.”

One of the men replied: “Master Dwarf! They say that Dwarves are stout fighters, and we have seen but a glimpse of what you can do. Will you not show us your skill with an axe?”

Dwalin looked at Thorin. “What do you think?”

“Don’t you need a rest?”

“Me? I’m as fresh as a daisy.”

And with a fierce grin, the two Dwarves marched onto the training-ground, and unbuckled their weapons. Thorin held a sword in his right hand and a great axe in his left; and Dwalin took the two battle-axes that were strapped to his back, and greeted them as though they were old friends.

“You think you’re ready for this, laddie?” he called to Thorin. “Haven’t seen you practice in a while!”

“I’m certainly in better shape than you, old man!” Thorin answered; and they ran at each other.

It was a fearsome sight. Axeblades whirled so fast that the Men could barely see them; and if this were indeed sparring, they wondered what the Dwarves might be capable of in a real fight. Dwalin surprised them all; for though he looked like a huge axe-wielding maniac, he did not fight like a berserker, but in a controlled and extremely efficient manner. But the lord Thorin struck awe in the hearts of the watchers, for there was a grim light in his eyes; and as he parried, and spun, and attacked, each of his movements had a deadly grace and power. It took someone like Dwalin to match him; and as Helmwyn watched him, she understood how such a one could have rallied a hopeless army to him, and turned a rout into a sweeping victory by the sheer force of his will.

The clang of axes was the only sound above the hush of the breathless watchers; when suddenly the two Dwarves broke off the fight, and laughed, and embraced like brothers, and all around them remembered this had merely been practice. A chorus of cheers rose from the assembled men.

“I bow to you, Masters,” said the lord Telramund, “for in truth I have never seen anyone fight like this!”

But Helmwyn looked at the lord Thorin, and said: “That was worth at least another one hundred axemen, my lord!”

Thorin held her gaze, then turned to look at Dwalin. He had gone to the men, and their smile paled as they saw the huge Dwarf marching towards them with a grin on his scarred face. “Right, you lot!” he bellowed. “Enjoyed that, did you? So how about you show _me_ something entertaining?”

“I daresay you shall have many more axemen’s worth by the time Dwalin is finished with your men,” said Thorin; “for if his hammer-blows do not break them, they will be as strong as tempered steel.”

The Rohirrim were expert at fighting on horseback; but Dwalin decided they needed a little kicking into shape when it came to hand-to-hand combat, and so decided to apply the boot. Telramund went across to watch more closely, but Helmwyn remained behind with Thorin.

“I am a little ashamed, my lord,” she told him.

“Why is that?”

“I fear I may just be wasting my own and everyone else’s time, trying to fight competently.”

“You need not be ashamed, my lady. You have been well schooled, and you are a fast learner. We are alike in this, that we like to watch and understand. Today you have learned some of Dwalin’s tricks; tomorrow you shall put them to deadly use.”

Helmwyn was grateful for his kind words, especially since they came from such an accomplished fighter; but she still felt humbled.

“But tell me, my lady, do your people earnestly expect their womenfolk fight?” asked Thorin, who found that the Rohirrim took this shieldmaiden business altogether too far.

“The women of the Mark fight when they must, although they are untutored,” answered she. “Unlike the daughters of the house of Eorl, who are lovingly taught from a young age, but whom no-one truly expects to fight.”

Thorin could hear bitterness in her voice, and gave her a searching look. “But your sense of duty commands otherwise, does it not.”

“Aye. I do not train out of a love of battle or a desire for glory, my lord. If I had things my way, I should spend my days with books and songs. But the Mark is under attack, and the day might come when my people are beleaguered, and we must defend ourselves in earnest. I cannot sit idle while others die.”

Thorin understood her only to well, and pitied her, that one so young and fair should feel the burden of duty so keenly. For he too shared that burden, and the line of Durin spared its heirs no more than the house of Eorl; and all of a sudden he thought not of his sister, but of his brother Frerin.

They stood in silence, watching Dwalin drill the men of the Mark. “BALLS OF STEEL, LADS!” he bellowed, all inhibitions forgotten, “I WANT TO SEE BALLS OF STEEL!” 


	11. Chapter 10

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 10**

 

That night when they had returned to Lindburg, Helmwyn bathed before the evening meal, for she had exerted herself greatly, and already had aches and pains just about everywhere. She sat back in the hot water and tried to unwind her knotted sinews. Her shoulders ached from the weight of that wretched hauberk; but then, they always did. She also saw bruising on her skin, and dreaded to imagine what her back looked like. Oh well, it had been worth it, and there would be more bruising tomorrow, and that would be worth it too.

Not that anyone was likely to care about the state of her back, except possibly her mother; and her mother was far away in Gondor. And although Helmwyn’s relationship with her mother was fraught, she inwardly thanked her for the recipe she had sent for making mare’s milk soap. Helmwyn was not vain, but she liked to feel clean; and so did her mother, who evidently felt that the Rohirrim were uncouth and had a great deal to learn from the refinements of Gondor. Helmwyn had liked many things about Gondor, but she was viscerally attached to the Mark; and so she welcomed the soap, and took pride in the many uses of horses.

She slipped on a plain gown and went to join the company in the Hall. The Dwarves sat with their heads together, and were studying the preliminary plans that Hogni and Snorri had made. They said that these were but rough sketches, but she still marvelled at their precision, for they put all the drawings that she had shown them the previous evening to shame.

Balin had taken out a small abacus, and with Snorri and Hogni, tried to estimate the required number of stone blocks to be quarried, and the amount of timber, tools, men and time required for the Hornburg alone. They were concerned about the Wall, and argued about whether to shore it up with brackets and props, or whether to take the subsiding section down and rebuild it on sound foundations. And they had not even begun to discuss what to do about the caves.

Ortrud and Telramund joined them, and the evening meal was served; and it was a merry evening, for all were still in high spirits from the bright, busy day at the Hornburg. Ortrud was delighted to hear that Dwalin had been teaching her niece to fight dirty, and demanded a detailed account. Helmwyn and Telramund supplied all the details, and Ortrud smiled brightly and commended Dwalin; but he blushed and looked down into his mug of ale.

Thorin decided to broach the subject of the caves while everybody was in such good spirits. “Lord Telramund,” he said, “I must confess that my companions and myself were greatly surprised when you took us to see the caverns behind Helm’s Deep. For to your people they are merely a refuge; but to our eyes, they are as fair as the fairest dwellings of our kings – or could be, with a little work, though that is not what we came for.”

There was laughter, and the lord Telramund answered: “I am glad that the stone of this country pleases you, my lord. And indeed, we too hold those caverns fair, though we would not dwell in them.”

“Nay, but in earnest. Do you think the King would trade the Orcs of the White Mountains for a few Dwarves? For these are fair mountains, and I believe my people could prosper here.”

At this, the smile died on Telramund’s face, and Ortrud looked down, and Helmwyn seemed troubled; but what Thorin saw in their faces was not anger. They looked at each other, and at last Helmwyn spoke: “My lord, do you remember what I told you of there being but few mountain-dwellers in the Mark?”

“Aye, lady, you said it was because you were horse-people.”

“That is so, but that is not all there is to the matter.” She looked again at her aunt and uncle, and went on: “The reason why only a few scattered folk dwell in the mountains is…” She broke off, searching for the right words. “There is a dread in the mountains. It dwells below the Dwimorberg, but how far it spreads in the mountains, we do not know.”

“There are reports, of pale figures writhed in mist riding through the high passes,” said Ortrud. “And on such nights villagers bolt their doors, and do not venture out; but the dread is not in the mind of men alone, for horses also sense it, and are maddened.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, and calm, but a fear danced in her eyes.

“It is said that they are the shades of Men, allied to the Dark Power long ago, and that they are cursed,” said Telramund in a grey voice. “Every so often, a bold man will set off towards the Dwimorberg, his head filled with tales of treasure. None of them are ever seen again. They do not suffer the living to pass.”

The Dwarves were sceptical, for they did not believe such tales; and even if they were true, the shades of Men held no dread for them.

“I see that you do not believe us, Masters,” said Helmwyn; “but you have not been to this place. I have.”

“What place mean you, Helmwyn?” asked Telramund. “Dunharrow?”

“I mean beyond the stones, up the path. I turned and ran when I saw the gate.” Her aunt and uncle were staring at her. “I was eleven, and my brother Waldred had dared me,” she said. “Of course, he was cowering by the stones, and never saw how far I went.” She spoke lightly, but her tone was brittle.

Telramund was horrified. “That boy deserves a whipping! It was foolish!”

“I know that now,” answered Helmwyn. “And that is why I say: the mountains are no place for the living.”

“But what of the Orcs?” asked Thorin. “How do these shades welcome them?”

“Ill, I hope,” said Telramund; “but should the two become allied, and the Orcs come south of Dunharrow…I fear the Mark would be lost.”

“Come, let us not despair,” said Ortrud. “The Dunlendings never got far into the mountains, and I doubt the Dead shall find the Orcs more congenial. Who knows, perhaps the passes about the Thrihyrne hold no fear. I for one should be glad to have Dwarves as our neighbours. But before we think on that, we must destroy the Orcs.”

They drank to that; but thereafter the company was subdued, and the Rohirrim soon retired to bed, and left the Dwarves on their own. They went back to their maps and calculations, but exchanged significant glances.

“Superstitious lot, aren’t they?” said Andvari, for whom the dark places beneath the earth held no fear whatsoever.

“Men. What d’you expect,” snarled Hogni, measuring a length of wall with his compasses.

“Superstitious or not, this is a cushy job,” said Regin.

“Aye. They’re a decent bunch,” said Snorri. “Polite.”

“I’d settle for a bit less ‘More wine, Master Dwarf?’ and a bit more concrete talk about the terms of our stay,” muttered Balin.

“Not to mention all this ‘my lord’ business,” Andvari added.

“Even _we_ don’t call you that,” Regin told Thorin.

“Aye, and you’re _lapping it up_ ,” added Hogni nastily.

But Thorin was amused at his companions’ suspicion, and shrugged it off. “I do not think it is flattery. That is simply their way.” He lit his pipe in a leisurely way. “My friends, I understand your misgivings, for our years in the wild have made you mistrustful, and rightly so. But we are not now in the wild; and I for one am inclined to trust these people. They seem grave and courteous, and honourable; and I daresay they keep their oaths. You all saw for yourselves how the King’s daughter thinks, in matters of fealty.”

“You’re the one who should have a care, brother!” Dwalin told Balin with a grin. “If you try and get more than your fair share of the bargain, I bet that little lady’ll get all ‘King’s swordy’ on you, too!” 

The Dwarves laughed. Balin glared at his brother. “Ha ha. Very funny. I’ll stick with ‘Master Balin’ then, thank you very much. AND with more wine.” And with that they got back to work.

Thorin knew his companions liked to grumble, and thought nothing of it. He found that, on the whole, and in spite of a few of their quainter cultural traits, he rather approved of these Rohirrim, and their lady.


	12. Chapter 11

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 11**

 

The first of the hard labour at Helm’s Deep fell to the smiths, for there would be a need for woodworking and stonecutting tools; and Thorin directed them, and set to work himself in the small makeshift forge. Timber was brought in from the nearby foothills, and Snorri excitedly went about instructing the men how to construct the hoists he had designed – although Balin’s and Regin’s help was needed to translate Snorri’s scribbled plans into something intelligible. Meanwhile, Hogni and Andvari chose where they would quarry the stones, and had a good long talk with the team of stonemasons that had been cobbled together, trying to evaluate their skills and to divide the tasks.

In truth, the Dwarves had some trouble grasping the organisation of the Riders; for they themselves functioned in an extremely disciplined and hierarchical manner - or at least they did, when they last had the numbers to form an army. The Rohirrim, on the other hand, seemed more like a militia than a standing army; and every man seemed to have come with his own horse and his own weapons. They would come when the King called the Muster; but since the Mark was now being constantly harassed, they could not all be on call all the time, for their labour was also needed in the fields and villages.

But the men of the Westfold seemed to be there on a voluntary basis, reckoning they could better defend themselves by mustering at Helm’s Deep and riding out together, than by staying each in his farm. There seemed to be a loosely organised yet efficient system of rotation; and they knew the country well, and patrolled it tirelessly, and shared the knowledge they gathered about recent attacks and isolated farms.

Their chief weakness was the fact that Orcs attacked at night, when there was little the Riders could do save head toward a farm that was already burning. Some bands of Orcs also had some large wolf-like beasts that they used as steeds; and these were fierce, and swift, and hard to kill, but thankfully there were still few, and it was their scouts that rode them. So the Riders had taken to hunting with hounds, for they could pick up Orc-trails and follow them in the dark; but they were not as tireless as horses, and their barking alerted the Orcs. But the Rohirrim were brave, and hardy, and had been long accustomed to defending themselves from Dunlending raiders; and they would fight as long as it took.

***

Dwalin’s lessons to the lady Helmwyn grew into a veritable training camp for the Riders of the Mark; for as there was a constant rotation of patrols, there was never any shortage of newcomers curious to observe the fearsome Dwarf up close. Dwalin announced that he couldn’t be expected to mollycoddle every single one of them, especially if they kept rushing about on horses all the time, as he put it; so he picked a dozen of the more gifted fighters, and said he would teach them, and they could then train their fellows, and he could simply come and shout at them from time to time.

The Riders fought competently with spear and shield, or with swords and small axes. Well, what they called “competently”, Dwalin found a little slapdash, for they chiefly swung their weapons around and yelled fiercely; but that wasn’t such a bad approach when facing Orcs. He decided to bully them about that later, but for now he would to lecture them on aspects of close combat, using the lady Helmwyn to demonstrate.

“Now lads, the first thing to know about Orcs is, they’ve got no style. Oh, so you think that’s funny, do you? Aye, they’ve got no style, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fight. If you think that, you’re dead. They’re unpredictable, and that’s what makes them dangerous. At first. Because once you get used to how they work, you can prepare yourself, and turn pretty much anything they throw at you. My lady, if you’d step this way, please?”

And Dwalin proceeded to give them another demonstration of the importance of balance and good footwork. He gave a wonderfully entertaining impression of an Orc berserker, hacking wildly; and opposite him, Helmwyn did her best to stand her ground and dodge what she could. She did get killed a few times, but she stayed focused, and Dwalin was pleased to see that she had already grasped quite a bit of what he had taught her.

“So now it’s your turn, lads!” yelled Dwalin at his group of Riders. “Come on, pair up, don’t be shy. Who wants to be the Orc?”

He watched them spar critically. “Is that the best Orc impression you can give me? Looks more like a cute squirrel to me! All right, change over!”

He practiced a few more passes with Helmwyn, and at one point knocked the sword form her hand.

“Aha! This is an interesting situation. What would you do now?” he asked the class.

“Pick up a conveniently fallen axe!” cried one.

“Charge!” shouted another.

Dwalin grinned. “Well, you might want to do that if you’re a big bloke like me; but for you stick insects,” and that included the tall strong men of the Mark, “unless you’ve got some truly amazing armour, I’d advise always having some spare blades about your person. Now, it’s not a good idea to fight with two blades if you’re not used to it, and I strongly advise against trying. But in a mêlée, you may not even have the space to swing a sword, and a convenient knife in your boot can make all the difference if you’re disarmed. So, don’t use it unless you have to, but always remember it’s there.”

They all had at each other again, but this time bearing in mind the possibility of a second blade. Some of the men were already making merry use of it. “What did I say?” Dwalin shouted at them. “Save it until you’ve got no choice! Otherwise the surprise effect is ruined, and your attention is divided. It’ll get you k- …there, what did I tell you?”

He went back to the lady, and after while he grabbed her sword arm and got her locked in a vise. “Aha! Now what would you do?”

“I might try stabbing you in the thigh with a dagger that I do not currently have” answered Helmwyn, “although I doubt that I could reach it. What could I do? Elbow you in the ribs? Would it advisable to head-butt you?”

“Hmm. If you were wearing a helmet, perhaps. But be careful with that, you could hurt your neck if you’re not used to doing it. Head-butting is tricky, and unless you’ve a hard head like me, you’re more likely to stun yourself that your enemy. The point is usually to break your opponent’s nose; and the thing about Orcs is, they don’t always have much in the way of noses. But they often do have those horrible rings they wear in their ears and lips and eyebrows and …cartilage. So one option, if you’re faced with one of those, is just to grab the rings and yank really hard.”

“An alternative to poking them in the eye.”

“Exactly. And also if they come at you, you can use their momentum and just grab and _slice_. Or grab and _knee_ ” said he, demonstrating rather graphically.

Thorin would sometimes wander over from the makeshift forge, to see how they were getting on. If the work was going well, he would stop for a while, and walk among the men, giving them advice and corrections; and sometimes, he would pair up with Dwalin, and their combined skills would leave the Riders dumbstruck.

Helmwyn was as impressed as the first time she had seen them fight, and told Thorin: “My lord, I fear we have enlisted you and Dwalin for something that was not part of the bargain! Yet I am mightily pleased with what you are doing with our Riders.”

“Do not worry, my lady,” answered he; “after all, Dwalin and I make better fighters than stonemasons!”

But though the lady had grown fond of Dwalin, and trusted him, and did not mind him kicking her feet from under her, she dared not fight the lord Thorin, for she thought him fierce and terrible, and was in awe of his strength.

***

Thorin stood on the Deeping-Wall. This he did ostensibly to watch the carpenters at work, and the stonecutters beyond; but in truth he stood on the Wall because he liked it there, and his gaze strayed rather to the Mountains behind the Deep, or to the rolling plains before it. And as he stood in that high place, Thorin felt the sun on his face, and the wind in his hair, and felt strangely at home.

“Thorin!” Balin called to him as he came over from the keep. “Have you thought about the fees yet?”

“Well, it’s hard to tell how long we’ll need,” answered Thorin. “If those valley-boys are any good, we might be out of here sooner than expected, for I have no doubt that Snorri’s hoists will work wonders.”

Balin chuckled. “To be honest, I’m relieved. I thought it was just going to be the seven of us and this ruin; but now it turns out that all these tall strapping lads will do the heavy lifting, and all I’ll have to do is point them in the right direction! It certainly beats toiling away in the villages.”

“Speak for yourself!” grinned Thorin. “Some of us have had to pick up a tool from time to time!”

“That being said, if you could find a moment to negotiate our fee…”

Thorin laughed. “Merely for pointing the men in the right direction?”

“There’s an art to it. It takes a lifetime’s experience and expertise.”

“Do not worry, my friend. I shall broach the subject with tact and discretion.”

“That would be wonderful,” said Balin pointedly. “It would put the lads’ minds at ease, and I should really like to be able to budget the coming winter. With enough gold coin, we might be able to move things along a little, back in the Blue Mountains. The work there has been dragging on for years.”

“I understand. And I too should be glad to put an end to this vagrant life, and to move into solid walls at last. But do you know, I look upon this place, and find myself wishing that we were building our home here.”

“Aye, I know what you mean, laddie. It’s those caves, isn’t it?”

“Not only the caves; it’s these mountains, it’s the stone of this country. Look at those peaks, how young and proud they are! And these walls, proper walls made out of proper limestone! Honestly, Balin, when did we last stand on battlements like these?”

Balin looked sadly at him, for he knew well enough when that had been. “More than forty years ago, back home.” Home. He had not called the Blue Mountains that.

“Aye. But I care not what these Rohirrim say; if the works go well, I have a mind to go up into those mountains and see for myself if they be truly haunted. I do not fear the shades of Men.”

“It’s the Orcs you should worry about.”

“To think of the price we paid to smoke them out of the Misty Mountains. And now we find them here!”

“It’s a funny old world, and no mistake. Come on laddie, enough brooding. Those stones won’t move themselves! The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be out of here.”

Balin walked away down the great steps into the Deep, and Thorin followed him reluctantly; but before leaving the Wall, he took a last look about him.

And the lady Helmwyn looked up in that instant and saw him standing there, and thought that he looked commanding, as though he belonged on tall battlements, surveying the lands beyond.


	13. Chapter 12

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 12**

 

That evening at table, Ortrud asked Helmwyn if she could be spared at the Hornburg in the following day, for she needed her help with the running of the estate. Helmwyn was loath to forgo her weapons training, but after all, she had also come down to Lindburg to make herself useful, and agreed to review the estate’s finances.

“I must commend your prudence, my lady,” Thorin told her. “Among my people, it is unusual for one of the royal house to have such a hands-on approach to stewardship.” This was certainly true as far as Thorin was concerned. Ever since they had settled in Ered Luin, and there had been anything to steward at all, Thorin had been more than happy to delegate in these matters, leaving Balin to keep an eye on things.

Helmwyn shot him a wry smile. “Among my people, it is unusual for one of the royal house to be able to read and write, beyond what is needed to sign one’s name. And so I feel it is my duty to keep an eye on things; and I would not put my whole trust in scribes and stewards if it can be helped, lest there be more _oversights_ like the one concerning the lord Wulfhere.”

There was a shocked silence from Dwarves; for the written word was highly prized in their own culture, and even the meanest craftsman was literate. They had seen Helmwyn with books and scrolls in Edoras, but thought nothing of it, so natural did it seem to them; but now it occurred to them that there were no papers about the place, save those that they had brought themselves.

The people of the Mark did have commercial records of sorts, and after dinner Helmwyn sat down with a collection of scraps of parchment, wax tablets, wooden labels and carved bits of bark that seemed desperately haphazard to the Dwarves, and tried to make them all add up. Balin saw that Helmwyn looked sullen and put-upon, and tentatively asked whether she had heard of double-entry bookkeeping. She had not; and when he scribbled a demonstration on the back of a piece of parchment, Helmwyn’s face brightened. Indeed, had Balin not sat across the table from her, she would have picked him up and hugged him.

“Master Balin,” said she, “I should be glad to try this method of yours; and if it can do anything to relieve the misery of this wretched paperwork, you shall have a friend for life in me!”

Balin was a little startled by her delight, but also quite pleased. When he was satisfied that she had grasped the idea, he left her to it, and went back to his companions. Balin was shaking his head. “How _do_ they manage, these oral cultures?” he muttered. “If you ask me, it’s hardly surprising there’s a famine every couple of years.”

Dwalin felt he had to stand up for the Mark. “That’s unfair,” he said. “They’ve got Orcs.”

“Aye,” said Thorin darkly. “Our Orcs.”

***

Thorin walked out of the hall, and settled in his favourite spot under the old linden-tree to smoke his pipe in peace and quiet. He needed to get away from the others once in a while, to be alone with his thoughts; and the others knew him well enough to let him be.

His old burden of loss and discontent was ever with him, of course; but all in all things were looking up, and he was glad of this venture to the south. The people here were forthright and hardy, the land was starkly beautiful, the work was satisfying, and his companions and himself had been shown more courtesy and appreciation than they had ever received at the hands of Men during their exile. Thorin was sleeping better, too.

He leaned back against the bole of the tree, and let the tobacco soothe him; and he took in the sights and sounds and scents of Lindburg in the evening: dogs barking, the smell of cooking-fires, lights inside the houses of Men. People here led busy, contented lives; and Thorin envied them, for they were rooted in the soil of this country, and felt at one with it.

And suddenly Thorin realised how much he longed for Home.

But home was not truly home, not to him; for though his wandering steps had brought him thither, in his heart and blood and bones he longed for another place. And that place he would never see again, save in memory only; or if he ever did, Thorin feared that he would find it so defiled and broken that it could never become Home again.

He looked upon the vale of Lindburg; and in spite of the dangers that beset the Mark, there was feeling of peace about that fair place. The air was mild, and the leaves of the linden tree rustled, and the land welcomed him; but Thorin knew with bitter certainty that he did not belong there; and that the place where he belonged was no more.

Thorin hung his head, and exile weighed heavy on his shoulders.

***

Helmwyn’s head was filled with stores and taxes and revenues; and ever present in her mind was the concern for the dispossessed, and how much coin and food could be set aside for them. There would be more this year – there always were. The estate’s accounts were hopelessly confused; but whether it were illiteracy, incompetence or barefaced cheating that was to blame for this, she did not know. Probably a mixture of the three. She would need to have words with the steward.

She gave up after a while, and came to join the company. “I shall do the rest tomorrow,” she announced; “but for now, I need a drink, else I shall murder someone!”

“Do not mind her, paperwork always puts her in a foul mood,” said Ortrud, handing Helmwyn a cup of ale.

“Fear not, I shall save my foul mood for your steward,” said Helmwyn, and gratefully accepted the drink.

She sat down next to Snorri, and took an interest in his perpetual doodling. Snorri was delighted of the attention, and proceeded to show her a wide array of fantastical designs, which he commented on with great enthusiasm. Helmwyn nodded appreciatively, though in truth this was entirely beyond her. She shot Balin a questioning glance, and the look on his face told her that Snorri’s designs were beyond any of them.

“Oh, and here is a new improved design for your sawmill,” Snorri chattered on. “How do you like it?”

Helmwyn considered the monstrosity of gears and cogs and levers. She must have looked aghast, for Balin came to her rescue: “I think the lady liked the old, unimproved design better.”

Snorri blinked behind his eyeglasses. “What, really?”

“Much as I would like to bankrupt the lord Wulfhere,” said Helmwyn, “perhaps we should stay with the simpler design.”

“It’s a question of maintenance,” said Balin reassuringly.

“Oh well. Suit yourself,” said Snorri, and went on doodling.

Helmwyn and Balin exchanged a grin.

“Pardon my asking, my lady,” said Balin; “but I am curious as to how come you did learn to read and write, if it be so unusual.”

“The circumstances _were_ rather unusual, for that too was Gandalf’s doing, if you must know.”

“Him again? My, my, the man _has_ been busy. How did that come about?”

“Do you really wish to know?”

“Go on, Helmwyn, tell him,” said Ortrud. “It’s a sweet story.”

Helmwyn resented that, for she hardly wished to be thought of as sweet. “Oh, very well,” she relented, and poured herself some more ale. “You must picture Gandalf, Master Balin. He is not unlike you in appearance, but very tall, and with a booming voice. He came to Edoras once when I was a tiny child. Of course, I should have been in bed; but I was curious of the old man, and crept back into the hall to listen to what the grown-ups were saying.

“They talked of arms and policies, and of strange lands with stranger names, and of mighty lords and fearsome enemies; and of course I did not understand any of what was said, but I was rapt. Gandalf saw me peeking from behind a pillar, and bade me come closer. My father wanted to send me back to bed, but I stood there, as earnest as a child can be, and told the wandering wizard that I wanted him to take me on his journeys, so that I too might see the strange and wonderful lands he had spoken of.

“The assembled lords laughed, but Gandalf gave me a searching look, and told me in a kindly voice: ‘I cannot take you with me, for I have need of haste, and my errand is not without peril.’ He saw my disappointment, and went on: ‘But if you really do wish to learn about far lands and strange peoples, you may read about them in books. With books, you can travel to the farthest corners of the world without any danger; and you may also travel in time, and learn of the deeds of great folk long ago. How would you like that?’. I said I would like that very much.”

Thorin had wandered back into the hall. His heart was heavy, but he was pleased at least to see that Balin seemed better at ease with their hosts. He went to sit with the others, as Helmwyn went on:

“And so Gandalf told my father, ‘My lord King, I believe this one should be taught her letters, if you would heed my advice; for I’ll wager she will put them to good use.’ My father failed to see the point of Gandalf’s request, but he trusted him, and valued his counsel; as for my mother, she approved, of course. And thus was I taught to read, while my brothers learnt to swing a sword.” She took a sip of ale. “I suspect the King thought it was as good a way as any of keeping me quiet, while I was too small to ride; and my mother thought it would make me _ladylike_ , and temper my Eorling blood.” Helmwyn wore a wry smile, but there was a bitterness in her voice when she spoke of her mother.

Balin was amused. “I wonder whether this Gandalf had accounts in mind when he gave that counsel.”

“Accounts were certainly not what _I_ had in mind! But I am grateful to have been taught this skill; and if it can be used to help the Mark, so much the better.”

Thorin sat nursing his drink, taciturn and watchful; and he began to brood about this Gandalf character, and about the workings of chance. He reflected that none of them might have been there in that moment, but for the fact that some years ago an old man spoke kind words to a child. It was a tenuous cause, and yet, as its consequences uncoiled down the years, it may well have brought about a change in the fortunes of the Mark, and of his own people.

Thorin thought of what he could achieve in Ered Luin with a goodly injection of cash from the Mark. He could support his best craftsmen, and enable them to perfect their new techniques. Local trade would flourish, and he even toyed with the idea of opening a trade route to the Mark. Horses and cloth in exchange for Dwarven crafts – and Mahal knew these people had need of them! Perhaps in time he could make Ered Luin something to be proud of. Thorin grimaced.

The others saw him frowning to himself, but he kept his own counsel that evening, and did not share his thoughts.


	14. Chapter 13

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 13**

 

The following morning, the Dwarves found Ortrud and Helmwyn in the yard, clad in leathers and girding themselves.

“Ladies!” cried Balin, “is the prospect of the accounts so grim, that you must meet them with a sword in hand?”

The women laughed. “Nay, Master Balin!” Helmwyn called back; “but if we are to be cooped up all day with wretched paperwork, you must grant us this little amusement, at least!”

“Amusement, is it? That we shall see,” grinned Ortrud. “Come, Helmwyn; pick up your shield!”

“Shield-training or accounts! It seems you are caught between a rock and a hard place, my lady!” called Balin.

“I shall tell you tonight which was the more gruelling. Good-day, Masters!” said Helmwyn, and turned to face her aunt.

The Dwarves went to ready their horses, but they could not resist glancing back to the training grounds. It was a sight in itself, these two handsome women, clad in leather and mail, and having at each other; but the fight was interesting, too. Ortrud was tough and confident, and had excellent technique; and though Helmwyn was quick and resourceful, she lacked her aunt’s poise and mastery. Thorin and Dwalin watched with interest how the ladies of the Mark made use of their round shields and one-handed swords, although Thorin suspected that Dwalin’s attention was equally divided between the sparring and the lady Ortrud’s long, leather-clad legs.

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to stay and watch?” he asked Dwalin. “Or would you rather join in?”

Dwalin shuffled and mumbled something, and sloped off towards the stables.

***

When they came back to Lindburg that evening, they saw that the lady Helmwyn sported a split lip; and when asked, she explained merrily that the lady Ortrud had thoroughly bested her during shield-training. She smiled, and her lip started bleeding again.

After supper, a mixed company assembled in the hall; for minstrels had arrived that day, and there was going to be music and singing. Helmwyn was in high spirits, for she had known these minstrels for many years, and was always glad to see them. Things were not as good for them as they once had been, and they seldom ventured west of Edoras these days; but they knew they were welcome in Lindburg. And they were feted by the townspeople, for the people of the Mark loved song and held their bards in high regard.

The minstrels were given a place of honour by the fire, and the old bard began tuning his harp. The company sat around them where they could, on benches or on the floor, and the others stood in a circle around them; but the lady Helmwyn sat at a table with a sheaf of parchment, quills and ink, for she liked to write down the songs she heard. The old bard joked about this, as he always did:

“If you go and write everything down, my lady, there will be no more need for us poor singers!”

And she replied, as she always did: “There will always be a need for you, Master Halfdan! The words are merely the bones of the songs, but you and your fellows breathe life into them!”

“Then why would you want to keep all those bones, lady?”

“In order to remember, Master Halfdan; in order to remember!” And though he teased her about it, she had gathered a number of songs over the years, and was able to remind him of some lines that he had forgotten.

“Well, my lady, I have a new one for you tonight, so sharpen your quill!” And then he rose and addressed his audience: “Now hear me, all of you, for I shall sing to you of the deeds of Helm the Hammerhand!” and there was loud cheering and shouting, for everyone loved tales of the mighty Helm.

The bard sung in the language of the Mark, which the Dwarves did not understand, though here and there they caught words that resembled the Common Tongue. But the language was rich and rolling, and the bard had a pleasant, event tone, and was an accomplished storyteller; and judging by the reactions of the rapt audience, the song was a good one. The lay was long, but when it was finished, the company roared its approval. “That was a fine song, Master Halfdan!” shouted someone. “Let’s hear it again!” and there was a chorus of cheers. The lady Helmwyn was pleased with that, for she had only managed to take sketchy notes for each stanza.

Halfdan bowed low. “I thank you, my friends. But singing is thirsty work! Has no-one a mug of ale for me?” There was laughter, and he was handed a drink. He gave them the lay of Helm again, and this time another minstrel joined him on a wide hide-drum; and the listeners clapped their hands, and the Dwarves could have sworn that, if they were to hear it a third time, they would have been able to sing along. When Halfdan had finished the second time, some men went to pick him up, and carried him around the hall on their shoulders amid the cheering.

Helmwyn had fleshed out her notes, and was now humming under her breath, trying to write down the tune. Balin peered over her shoulder, and saw that she used a notation system not dissimilar to the one Dwarves used, only more ancient and less sophisticated. Soon they were discussing the respective merits and origins of the two. Balin suspected that, like the runes their peoples used, both systems had derived from an Elvish source, but he shrugged, and gave Helmwyn some useful tips for writing down rhythm.

Thorin wandered over and picked up the harp that Halfdan had left on the bench, and plucked a few strings. But Halfdan had been set back on his feet, and eyed Thorin curiously.

“Do you play, Master Dwarf?”

“Aye, I do, though our harps are of a rather different make.”

“Would you care to give us a song?”

Thorin shook his head. “That I cannot, for I fear your instrument will not give me all the notes that I require.” And he went on to tell Halfdan about the system of levers dwarven harps had, to shorten the strings and raise them by half a step. The bard was extremely interested. “That sounds like it could spare me a lot of tedious re-tuning. Do you think you could show me how these things are made?”

“Snorri is the one you want for mechanisms,” said Thorin and pointed out his short-sighted companion. “But if you like, we shall put our heads together, and see what we can do.” The company was eager for more music, and started calling for Halfdan; so Thorin gave him back his instrument, and nodded to him, and walked away.

In truth, Thorin could have given them a song had he really wanted to; it would only have taken a little re-tuning on the harp. But his heart was not in it. The songs he knew and loved were not tavern-songs, suitable for a company of merry strangers; but songs of memory and honour, of lost realms and former glory, of battle and sorrow; and he had no desire to sing them now. But his mood was darkened, for such matters were ever in his heart; and retired to a corner to smoke his pipe, and gazed balefully at the glad company as he brooded on the wrongs of his people.

To his surprise, the lord Telramund had stepped forward, and was giving a boisterous performance of what he assumed to be a drinking-song. The company clapped their hands in time to the music, and Hogni and Andvari struck up and improvised accompaniment by hitting the table, their tankards, and Dwalin’s armour with their spoons. Surprisingly, Dwalin didn’t seem to mind this too much, for he was fond of music; and when Telramund had finished, he borrowed the fiddle and played a merry dwarven tune, earning considerable applause from those who knew him only as a fearsome warrior.

Helmwyn was especially fulsome in her praise; but Dwalin dragged her from her papers and to her feet, and was trying to persuade her to dance. She laughed, but was adamant in her refusal. “Nay, master Dwalin,” said she. “I will dance with you on the training grounds, and on the training grounds only. I can give you a song if you wish, but that is all!” The company welcomed her suggestion with a chorus of cheers, and after a brief consultation with the minstrels, she fetched the words of the song from among her sheaf of papers, and the players started playing, harp, fiddle and fife.

It was a brisk, spirited tune, and the old bard sang the first verse; but then she answered him, and he answered back, and then she again, and it soon became clear to the Dwarves that the song was a boasting contest. Halfdan had a witty delivery; but the lady sang in a fine, strong chest voice, and struck warlike attitudes, and made the assembled company roar with laughter, even the Dwarves, who could only guess at the extravagant boasts she was making.

The players ended with a flourish, and the lady smiled, and wiped the blood from her lip, which had split again; and she sat down amid laughter and cheers on the bench where she had left her sheet of verse. She had not needed after all.

“That was a mighty fine song, my lady!” called Dwalin as she took a well-earned drink of mead.

“Thank you, master Dwalin! Though I fear some of the comic effect might have been lost on you. You see, in the last verse I claimed to have pulled off a troll’s head with my bare hands.”

“Oh no, you made that bit perfectly clear! Nice twisting motion, too.”

“You are too kind.” She gave Dwalin a mock bow, and took another sip.

The company’s high spirits had not abated, and the called for the lady to give them another song. She protested a little, but then relented.

“What shall we give them, Master Halfdan? Something to dampen their spirits a little? I fear they are too merry already”

“How about the _Linden tree_ , my lady?”

“Oh, not that, I pray you! That one shall not only dampen their spirits, it shall make everyone weep!”

“But you do it so well, my lady!”

It must indeed have been a particular favourite, for those who were close and had overheard the conversation started chanting “ _The Linden tree! The Linden tree!_ ” until the whole room joined in. The lady threw up her hands: “Very well, the _Linden tree_ it is. On your head be it!”

There were cheers, but those where quickly hushed when the bard started a prelude of arpeggios on his harp. The lady wore a wry smile, but when she began to sing, her voice was soft, and warm, and clear. The tune was a simple one, but everyone present in the room, whether they knew the song or no, felt something tighten around their heart.

The fiddler picked up the tune after the first verse, ornamenting it with lilting accents, and when the lady began the second verse, the fiddle wove in and out of her voice in a plaintive countermelody. The third player had put away his flute, but now held his drum, and started beating out a slow, solemn rhythm, like a heartbeat. Helmwyn’s eyes were closed, and every word she sang was coloured with sorrow, even to the Dwarves. For though she sang in her native tongue, they felt it was a song of love, and longing, and long waiting; and each thought of home, and of loved ones they had lost, or left behind.

The song seemed to mirror Thorin’s thoughts, for he remembered the Erebor of his youth, so fair and so strong. He remembered mighty Thrór upon his throne. He remembered his mother. He remembered his brother Frerin, with his stout bow and laughter on his lips. He remembered Thráin, grim and powerful in his red armour. And he remembered that Erebor was rubble and ashes, and that Thrór had met a shameful end, and that his mother had saved little Dís from the Mountain only to perish from her burns; and he remembered that his brother had been slain, and that his father was half-crazed. Thorin hung his head.

The last verse came, and the drum and fiddle were silent, and the lady’s voice faded to a whisper, and at last there were only the last notes of the harp, hanging in the air of the hall, along with a harrowing sense of loss.

There was a deep hush after the song ended, though it was broken gradually by sniffing, and the clearing of throats, and mumbled comments of approval. The Dwarves were looking distinctly misty-eyed; Snorri was blowing his nose, and even Dwalin had gone very quiet, and was studying the back of his hands with seemingly great interest _(1)_.

Balin cleared his throat. “I think I speak for all of us if I say that this was beautiful. Might I ask you what that song was about, my lady?”

 “Oh, you know. Life and death, love and loss, home and exile. The usual things,” Helmwyn answered lightly; but whether she was truly unmoved, or rather kept her feelings firmly in check, none could say. “I did warn you!” Helmwyn told the company; “it does that every time, you should know better!” And then to Halfdan, who seemed a little affected himself: “Can you think of anything that will cheer them, Master? I would not have the evening end quite so soon!”

And with that she rose and went to fill her cup with more mead, and sipped it in silence, while the fiddler struck up a merry tune in an attempt to gladden everyone’s hearts. Her eyes fell on the lord Thorin, sitting on his own in a corner, smoking his pipe, with a faraway look in his eyes. She was about to return to her corner of the table and her pile of notes; but then, on second thoughts, she filled another cup with mead, and walked over to Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The back of Dwalin’s hands was of course very interesting, although obviously to him they didn’t have the same novelty value as to someone he would be, for instance, punching in the face.


	15. Chapter 14

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 14**

 

“Would you like a cup of mead, my lord?”

Thorin emerged from his brooding, a little surprised to find her standing before him, offering him a draught. “Thank you, my lady, I would,” said he courteously; and he took the cup from her, and raised it to her, and took a sip. The mead was strong, and sweet, and amber-coloured, like the lady’s voice.

“My lord, might I sit with you?” she asked, “though perhaps you would rather be left alone; for indeed that is the place I withdraw to when I wish to sit by myself, and think. But now _you_ have withdrawn here…”

“Then sit with me, my lady, and let us be withdrawn together.”

She sat down beside him, and for a while they stared into the fire in silence. Thorin was in a strange mood, for the lady’s singing had moved him, and his heart was heavy with much dwelling on the past; but although he knew not what he should say to her, he was strangely glad of her company. In the middle of the hall, the evening was beginning to be merry once more.

“You have a fine voice,” he said at last.

“My people are fond of song,” she answered simply.

“So are mine. But not all those who love song make good singers.” Thorin indicated Regin, who had begun to sing tunelessly along with the music, until Andvari kicked him in the shins. They watched Dwalin, who was now trying to lure the lady Ortrud into dancing with him. It was quite a sight. They smiled at that; and Helmwyn winced, as her lip bled again, and she tasted blood and mead on her tongue.

She still felt a little shy of Thorin; for he was a lord of stern demeanour, and had about him a sense of hidden power. Yet she perceived no threat from him, only a deep sadness. She did not wish to anger him, or to grieve him, by questioning him about his people, for what little she knew of them already was painful indeed. But she did wish to know more about the Dwarves. After all, it looked like they would be her guests for a little while.

“Will you tell me of your home, my lord?” she asked him. “I should dearly like to hear more about the lost Kingdom under the Mountain.”

Thorin seemed genuinely surprised by this. At first he tried to excuse himself with a jest.

“You would ask a Dwarf to tell you of the halls and deeds of his forefathers? Lady, you do not know your peril! For the fire will burn low and you shall fall asleep before I finish detailing my family tree; and indeed when the sun is high in the sky, I shall still be describing the doorway.”

He looked into the lady’s eyes, and saw that they were grave and earnest; and he sighed, and relented.

“You must know that I was but a Dwarfling when the dragon came, hardly big enough to lift a sword, let alone wield it. So it may be that my memories of the Mountain were made fairer by loss, and time, and the tales and songs of my kin.” He paused, and took a sip of mead, and stared into the fire. “But I can still see the great gate, hewn into the side of the Mountain, standing grim and fair in the noonday sun; and thereupon stood heralds, and greeted the heirs of Durin to the sound of brazen trumpets when we returned. Often I stood on those battlements, and looked out upon the land, and believed the pride of my people and the strength of my kingdom would endure for ever.” Thorin’s voice trailed off, and Helmwyn did not prompt him, but waited for him to resume.

“Guarding the gate were mighty statues of warriors, axes at the ready; and inside there were more of the same, and they stood as high as the roof of the great hall itself.” Thorin rubbed his eyes, as though to dispel the years that obscured his vision of that place. “I cannot describe it, my lady. I cannot give you an idea of the sheer size of it. Your Golden Hall would have fitted in it not ten times, but a hundred times, or more. And through it all ran walkways and pillars and stairs and bridges, all cut out of the living rock, and adorned with carved and gilded runes; and everything shone with the golden light of thousands upon thousands of lamps. Lady, it was never dark under the Mountain.”

Thorin’s eyes shone under his dark brows. “And there my people lived, and mined, and crafted, and traded. For many years we had peace, and wealth beyond count, and the friendship of Men. As for the Elves…well, let us say that we enjoyed their grudging respect, as long as our people were strong. But I wish you could have seen it, my lady: the great hall of green marble, and mighty Thrór upon his throne, and the light of the Arkenstone above him.”

Helmwyn listened to Thorin’s deep voice, and half-saw halls and corridors and passages of stone, splendidly carved and filled with treasure; and therein a crowd of industrious Dwarves, richly dressed and content. She looked at him, and saw that his eyes were fierce and sorrowful; and she pitied him for the loss of his realm and the plight of his people.

“You do make me wish I had seen it, my lord,” she said at last. “Indeed, I cannot rightly picture anything so great and so splendid. All I can do is to imagine Mount Mindolluin hollowed out, and Mundburg somehow tucked inside it.”

“Mundburg?” asked Thorin. He realised that his pipe had gone out.

“That is what we call Minas Tirith, the white city of Gondor,” said she. “It is a great city, indeed the greatest I have ever seen, and yet it stands only on the spur of a mountain, when your city filled the Mountain itself…It must have been the labour of centuries to create such a place.”

“It was founded eight hundred years ago, which is not that long ago by the reckoning of my people; but in that time, my kin made it a place of wonder.”

Helmwyn was amazed. “My lord, I marvel that Dwarves should count eight centuries to be no time at all. It is but four hundred years since Eorl rode out of the north, and that time already seems to us to be shrouded in legend.”

“Your people are young, my lady. Be glad of it! For a long memory is a heavy burden, and brings sorrow as much as pride.”

Helmwyn said nothing, because she feared that any more talk of the Mountain would inevitably lead to talk of the dragon, and she did not wish to sadden him any more. But Thorin had no need of any prompt, for such thoughts were ever in his mind, unbidden.

They sat and drank their mead in silence, and listened to the lady Ortrud sing of the war against the Dunlendings. She recited rather than sang, but she did it with verve and ferocity, and they could see that Dwalin was watching her with rapt attention. The song finished, and there was cheering; and Halfdan called out: “Who would like a go? Anyone?” and Thorin stirred, and told Helmwyn: “Do you know, my lady, I have a mind to give them a song after all”; and with that he rose and stepped into the circle.

He was greeted gladly, and Halfdan asked him: “So have you changed your mind about our harps, Master Dwarf?” But Thorin replied: “Indeed no; but for what I have in mind, I shall require a deeper sound!” And he turned to his fellows and said: “Boys, give me a drone, will you?”

The Dwarves knew what was coming, and at once their faces turned grave; and Dwalin straightened up, and took a deep breath, and began to hum a low note, which resonated in his great chest. The others joined in, harmonizing above Dwalin’s bass note, and a hush fell on the company, for all sensed there was a solemnity about the moment. And then Thorin began to sing.

A chill went through the assembled listeners. The lord Thorin’s voice was dark and tuneful, and though he seemed to sing for himself, his voice carried around the hall. The sounds of the dwarven tongue were strange to the people of the Mark; but as they listened, entranced, to the deep voices of the Dwarves, it seemed to them that the song spoke of slow time, and stone pillars, and mighty halls beneath the mountains, and of great sorrow.

When the song ended, it was as though a spell had been lifted, and after a moment’s hush, the Dwarves were given a warm round of applause. But now Helmwyn noticed that she had hardly dared to breathe while Thorin sang, and that the hairs on her forearms stood on end. She was dumbstruck; and it was just as well that he drained his cup, and nodded to her, and retired, for he had had enough of company for that evening.

 


	16. Chapter 15

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 15**

 

The works at Helm’s Deep continued apace; and after a few initial blunders, and with Hogni’s constant and hawkish supervision, the men of the Mark had begun to quarry acceptable blocks of limestone. The going was slow at first, but they were improving; and little by little, smooth new blocks were now beginning to fill the breach within the inner wall of the Hornburg.

On some days, the lady Helmwyn would ride to Helm’s Deep, ostensibly to see the progress there in the lord Telramund’s absence, when he had ridden out with an _éored_ ; but then she would spend most of her time on the training-grounds. On other days she would stay in Lindburg, and talk to the farmers and tradesmen who came to market; or else she would ride to neighbouring farms and homesteads. And to all, she said to take heart, and to ready themselves, and to set aside part of their grain and stores for safekeeping; for she was confident that by harvest-time, the Hornburg and the caves would be secure.

There were always several _éoreds_ patrolling at any given time; but now the sound of horns was heard in the distance, and the watchers on the walls saw that one was approaching even now, and sounded their own horns in greeting. Snorri had installed himself in the Keep, and Thorin and Balin were with him, poring over plans and mapping out the next stage of the works. As the horns sounded, they wandered out onto the battlements to see what the commotion was about.

“Oh. More Riders. What a surprise,” said Balin. “You’d think they would have gotten used to it by now.”

“Perhaps it’s the King again,” suggested Snorri. “They got rather excited last time he rode through.”

“Surely he can't be back already?” said Balin.

“I do not think this is the King; but it must be some important captain,” said Thorin. “Listen to them.”

And indeed, as the _éored_ rode up through the camp, there was cheering, and loud cries of ‘Walda! Walda!’; and when the _éored_ came to a halt, the Dwarves could see that their leader was very tall, and powerful, and wore armour embossed with red (well, Thorin and Balin could see it; Snorri was so woefully short-sighted that he kept asking: “Riders? Where?”). Helmwyn emerged from the training-grounds, and ran to embrace the captain; and he, being so tall, picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child.

“Looks like the lady has a swain,” said Balin with a twinkle in his eye; but Thorin frowned, and said nothing. (“A swain? Where? Am I missing something?” asked Snorri.) Helmwyn had taken the tall captain by the hand, and was leading him through the camp. “Right, fun’s over; let’s get back to work, boys,” rumbled Thorin, and stalked back towards the Keep. (“What fun?” asked Snorri.)

A while later, they were still bent over Snorri’s plans, trying to work out the exact dimensions of the required blocks of limestone, when, through the open door of the Keep, walked the lady Helmwyn and the tall Rider in the red armour. He was a truly magnificent specimen, with broad shoulders and a handsome face; and the lady was beaming. “Masters! Forgive me for disturbing your work, but there has come someone very dear to me, and I would introduce you,” she called. Thorin rolled his eyes, and turned to face the newcomer with as stony an expression as only a Dwarf could muster.

“This,” said Helmwyn, her arm linked in the Rider’s, “is none other than Thorin Thráinsson, the prince and champion of Durin’s folk; and here is Balin, and Snorri.”

The tall man smiled at them and spoke: “It is both a pleasure and an honour to meet you at last; for Helmwyn spoke of your people a great deal, and had high hopes of your coming! You have my thanks, and those of the Mark”; and with that he bowed to them. Thorin acknowledged his words with a curt nod.

“And this handsome fellow,” Helmwyn told the Dwarves, “is my elder brother, Walda, son of Brytta.”

Well of course he was. “It is we who are honoured,” said Thorin courteously. Now the Dwarves could see that he greatly resembled King Brytta in looks and stature, and he had the same bright smile. Well, Thorin and Balin could, and they bowed in turn; Snorri just nodded genially and tried to bow in the general direction of the voices.

“I see you are busy saving our beloved old Hornburg,” said Walda to the Dwarves. “Then there is hope for the old lady still?”

“Aye, my lord, we shall make sure she lasts a few more winters!” answered Thorin.

“I look forward to seeing her progress! I shall ride back soon enough. But now I must leave. Until we meet again, my friends!”

Helmwyn walked her brother back to the door. “Will you not stay in Lindburg tonight?” she asked him.

“Nay,” said he, “I would make haste, for I have been gone too long. But will you not come and visit us in Aldburg?”

Helmwyn laughed, and shook her head. “Nay, brother, for I am needed here.”

“Farewell then, dear sister. Be safe.” He hugged her once more, and she sent him on his way with a smile. “Silly boy,” said she fondly, shaking her head.

“He must ride like the wind if he hopes to be in Edoras by tonight,” said Thorin.

“Oh, he is not concerned with that. He wants to be back in Aldburg by tomorrow evening. You see, when they are not hunting Orcs, my brothers dwell in the Folde, so I see but little of them, for I do not like to stay there.”

“You have more than one brother?” asked Balin.

“Aye, I have two. Walda, whom you’ve met, is a man of few words, and is easy company; but his wife talks for the two of them. Besides, they have a son, and I have no wish to play dry-nurse to the child! As for my other brother, Waldred, he has a mocking mind and a sharp tongue.”

“Was he not the one who dared you to walk up to the Haunted Pass?”

“Aye, the very one! Though I love both my brothers dearly, I cannot abide them for very long.” She gave a wry smile. “And of course, I would not risk meeting my husband’s kin if I can help it; there’s another good reason to avoid the Folde.”

The Dwarves were surprised, for this was the first time she had said anything about being wed. Then again, these Rohirrim seemed to spend so much time riding up and down the land, it was a marvel they managed to raise families at all. “But what of your husband? Is he patrolling the Westfold with the other lords?” Thorin asked.

But Helmwyn laughed. “My husband died with an Orc arrow in his throat some years ago. I am in no haste to join him!” said she brightly. Whether it was fortitude or coldness, Thorin could not say; but he remembered that it was his people who had driven the Orcs south of the Misty Mountains, and felt a sudden twinge of guilt.

***

One evening as the Dwarves had stabled their mounts and made for the hall, Hogni drew his companions aside, and they gathered in a loose circle under the old linden tree.

“Lads, I was wondering,” said Hogni, “why do we have to keep riding back and forth between here and Helm’s Deep? Why shouldn’t we just stay there?”

“Aye, I’m fed up with all this riding,” said Andvari. “It’s a waste of time, too.”

“Quite right,” said Hogni. “I say we take our stuff and go kip in the Hornburg.”

“Or better still, in the caves,” said Andvari.

The other Dwarves looked at each other for an awkward moment, but they did not greet Hogni’s suggestion with the enthusiasm he would have expected. Regin conceded that the riding was tiresome; but although the Hornburg would normally have been a vast improvement on their usual circumstances, they had to admit that they rather liked it in Lindburg, and were reluctant to leave the place.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hogni. “Have you lot gone soft? Want to stay by the nice comfy fire?”

“Yes, actually,” said Snorri, who was happy as long as he had somewhere warm and well-lit where he could sit and draw.

“And I’m more than happy to be sleeping in a proper bed,” said Balin, and Hogni snorted. “Oh, you may laugh at that, but just you wait till you’re my age, and you’ll see how important these things become.”

“The food’s good,” supplied Dwalin.

“And there’s music, and civilised conversation,” said Thorin.

“Oh aye, I see,” sneered Hogni, “the company of lords and ladies is all right for the likes of you. Well, suit yourselves. It’s not like we’re married. But I’ll be kipping in Helm’s Deep from now on.”

“And so am I,” said Andvari. “How about you, Regin?”

Regin, looked miserable, but he nodded. “All right, brother.”

Hogni gave them a look, and walked away, and Andvari with him; and Regin trailed resentfully after them.

“What was that about?” said Thorin.

“Looks like the lads are feeling socially awkward,” said Balin.

“Whatever for? Everybody has been extremely courteous and welcoming.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe there’s only so much ‘my lord this’ and ‘my lord that’ they can take.”

“Well, yes, they address me formally, but I’m not going to complain about that. I’d rather be called ‘my lord’ than ‘hey, you!’”

“Fair enough, laddie.”

“Besides, I find the lord Telramund and his family are rather pleasant hosts. Don’t you?”

“I think so too,” said Dwalin.

“Well you would, wouldn’t you,” said Balin.


	17. Chapter 16

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 16**

 

Helmwyn walked back from the stables, and found Thorin sitting at a table outside the hall, filing away at little things of metal. She greeted him and went over to see what he was doing. “What are you making, my lord?” she asked him.

“It is a little project I have been pursuing in my spare time,” he told her. “Those are tuning levers for Master Halfdan’s harp.” He had cast them at the forge, and had borrowed Balin’s jeweller’s files to give them a smooth finish, so that they would not wear out the harpstrings. Helmwyn unbuckled her sword, and sat down on the bench opposite, and watched him work for a while; and she was amazed that he could work so deftly, and on such small things, with those great hands of his.

He seemed in a good mood, and Helmwyn judged that now might be a good time to ask him what she had meant to ask for a while now. “My lord,” said she, “speaking of Master Halfdan, I wanted to know…are there any songs among your people of your deeds during the war against the Orcs?”

Thorin looked up at her from under his black brows, and actually smiled. “Aye, there are some. Why do you ask? Would you have them translated and sung throughout the Mark, to kindle hope and defiance in the hearts of your people?”

Helmwyn laughed. “That is a shrewd guess, my lord! And close enough to the truth; for I find it fitting that you should thus be known in the Mark, and thus remembered.”

Thorin still smiled, but he shook his head sadly. “I fear such songs would do little to bring your people courage, my lady; for they are grim songs, and sorrowful.”

“Aye, I feared it might be so,” said she. “And yet I would hear them.”

Thorin looked into the lady’s earnest eyes, and remembered that she too had suffered a loss at the hands of the Orcs, and knew well enough the reality of war, as indeed did all her people.

“Why is it that the best songs are of war, do you think?” he mused aloud. “For war is not glad.”

“War is never glad,” answered Helmwyn; “and yet great deeds must be remembered.”

“ _Were_ these deeds great, though?” he asked. “They were dark and terrible, aye; and there was naught in our hearts in those days, save a grim determination to kill and avenge. Many of our kin perished for this unrelenting hatred. And all for what? Not a day passes but I ask myself that. And yet…”

Thorin trailed off. He was rolling one of the little levers between his fingertips.

“…do you know,” he said at last, “looking back, I realise now that during that time, my people were united by a sense of purpose such as we had not known since the dragon came, nor have known since. It is a terrible thing to say, but sometimes I almost miss it.”

Helmwyn found the lord Thorin’s words alarming, for she heard despair in them.

“Surely you are even now building a new life,” she said. “Is that not the greatest purpose of all?”

“Aye, assuredly,” said he, staring at the little lever with an air of discouragement.

Helmwyn was baffled, and tried to rouse him from his melancholy state.

“Tell me about the Blue Mountains, my lord. How is your new home?”

Thorin sighed.

“It is old, lady. They are called mountains, but they are little more than hills now. It is said there were great strongholds of our people there, when the mountains were younger; but they were broken and flooded by a great convulsion of the world long ago, when many lands were drowned. The mountains have since been weathered down, and all trace of our ancient cities is now lost.”

“But is it a good home?”

“Good enough. There is iron ore, and other useful seams. The climate is not inclement, and there are farmers and burghers in that corner of Eriador with whom we can trade. We can even trade with the Elves at the Havens, if we must. The land is untroubled by Orcs, save a few gangrel ones from the northern wastes, and the Rangers make short shrift of them.”

But even as he listed all that was good about the Blue Mountains, Thorin seemed half-hearted and downcast.

“Then why seem you so discontented, my lord?” asked Helmwyn.

“It seems now the humble crafts of our kind shall be our livelihood, and not great works such as our forefathers made. Indeed, much knowledge perished with those of my folk who died under the Mountain; and so we look back in awe to the treasures of our race, and deem them magical, for the skill of making them has been lost forever.”

Thorin resumed his filing in a desultory fashion. “And so we turn to our lesser crafts, and apply our skill to them, and attempt to find new wonders within the stone. And indeed the inventiveness of my folk is not to be denied, even in adversity. We have found dyes that the Elves envy, for we can make deep, light-fast hues that they with their natural dyes cannot. We are making wondrous things out of glass, and soon they will be more wondrous still. Aye, though we are brought low, the skill of my people remains unmatched. We shall mine, and trade; and though we may not be great, I daresay we may again be wealthy.”

Thorin paused, and put down his file.

“But alas, we mine iron now, instead of gold and jewels.”

“People shall always need iron, my lord,” said Helmwyn gently. “There is no shame in it.”

“Nay, to be sure, there is no shame. But tell me, my lady, how would you feel if your people had to live as mule-drivers, or goat-herds? What if they were driven from the Mark into fens, or stony wastes, or barren hills, and never saw green grass? Would they not feel sorrow and shame when they saw a rider on a great horse on the distant road? Would their hearts not sicken and grieve, never again to ride swiftly through the wide grasslands with the wind in their hair?” Helmwyn’s heart was chilled, for she was beginning to understand.

“What your _mearas_ are to your people, gold was to mine,” said Thorin. “And what the green plains of the Mark are to you, the Mountain was to us. This is not merely about riches, or pride, though assuredly these things play their part. This is about who we are as a people. Would it not be better, I sometimes wonder, to dwindle into the hills, and forget the realms of our fathers, and simply be content to live and labour as other folk do? Indeed, some of my people might wish it, but I cannot. I may not. I carry the weight of so many dead that I have no say in the matter.”

Helmwyn was silent, and thought about the many Dwarves that had perished when the dragon sacked the Mountain, and about the great number that had been slain in the war against the Orcs; and she thought of Thorin’s duty to the few that remained, and to the memory of the others.

“But, my lord…” said she at last, “you have defeated your foe, and have given your people a new home, which would be counted no mean achievement by most. What more would you do? What more _could_ you do, to avenge your kin, that you have not already attempted?”

“My course is clear, lady. The task has been bequeathed to me. Sooner or later I must reclaim the Mountain.”

She gazed at him in silence. His eyes burned fiercely, but there was no hope in them; and now at last did she fully understand the burden he bore.

***

The light was failing, and the lady Ortrud came out to tell them that supper was ready; and Thorin put away his levers and his files, and they went inside. And they spoke not of these things again that evening; but Thorin was silent, and Helmwyn gazed long at him. She felt guilty for stirring up dark thoughts in him; although in truth such thoughts were ever in Thorin’s mind.

Ortrud could see that if Helmwyn was curious about the Dwarves, she was fascinated by the lord Thorin. If asked, Helmwyn would have readily admitted to this, on account of his birth, and his deeds, and his burden. She knew now that there could be no rest for him, not ever, until he reclaimed the Mountain, or perished in the attempt. Helmwyn’s heart was moved to pity; and she vowed to herself to do whatever she could to help him in his hopeless endeavour, even if that only meant compiling the few songs and tales she had about dragon-slayers. It was not very much in the way of dragon-lore, but it might help.

But Ortrud saw the way Helmwyn looked at the lord Thorin; and she wondered whether his piercing eyes and deep voice, his brooding good looks and his flowing hair had nothing to do with her niece’s interest. This she would have denied, of course; but had she been honest with herself, Helmwyn would have realised how much she admired his quietly powerful bearing, and his air of sorrowful majesty.


	18. Chapter 17

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 17**

 

When the Lord Telramund and the Dwarves rode to Helm’s Deep that morning, the lady Helmwyn rode with them; for she said that she had been idle long enough, and that it was time that she too took out an _éored_.

Three score Riders had gathered in the centre of the camp at the foot of the Deeping-Wall, and were packing food into their saddle-bags, and making ready to leave. The Dwarves watched Helmwyn, clad in her hated mailshirt and a plain leather cuirass, as she strapped a couple of blankets to her saddle. They exchanged glances, but none of them said anything, save for Balin. “Must you do this, my lady?” he asked, giving voice to their misgivings.

“You need not fear for me, Master Balin,” answered she with a smile; “this is a bad season for Orcs! They skulk in the hills now, for the days are lengthening; but they shall come down again when the harvest is in, and the foals are grown.” She mounted up, and put on her helm. “Besides, what else would I do with my time?” she asked, and took her spear from a squire. “Sit around in a bower - whatever that may be - like my mother in Gondor would have me do?”

“There are always accounts,” suggested Balin.

Helmwyn laughed, and said she would rather deal with Orcs.

Horns were sounded, and she rode off, with her _éored_ in tow, and a pack of large grey hounds; and the Dwarves would not have been able to tell her from the other Riders, had it not been for her smaller stature, and the round blue shield that was strapped to her back.

***

In some matters, Thorin had great trouble understanding the Rohirrim. For years, he and his brother and his father had watched over his sister Dís, and sought to keep her safe from harm; for now that all else was lost, she was indeed the treasure of the house of Durin. But these people seemed to find it perfectly normal that the King’s daughter should ride off to war. How they could even contemplate this was entirely beyond him.

He decided to share his concern with the lord Telramund, who after all seemed a sensible man. Thorin walked up to him as he waved his niece farewell.

“In truth, my lord,” said Thorin, “I am amazed that your people should let the women of their royal house put themselves thus at risk.”

“Aye, that may seem surprising to you, my lord,” answered Telramund; “but this has ever been the way of our people. It used to be necessary when we were a wild nomadic folk in the North. Ever since that time have there been shieldmaidens in the house of Eorl, though perhaps fewer now than there used to be; for even now we are not safe from attack, and the day may yet come when someone must lead the people when the men are slain, and hold the last defences.”

Thorin was unconvinced. “How can a woman, however well-trained, hope to hold her own in a fray?”

The lord Telramund laughed. “You did not know my wife in her youth, my lord. She was formidable!” said he with a fond grin. “We had to deal with a few Dunlendings in those days; and I can assure you that she showed them no mercy. You should have seen her. What a fighter she was!”

Thorin had to agree that the lady Ortrud still was formidable; but he remained baffled. “I can see the sense in teaching women to defend themselves,” he said; “and indeed the women of my own people have had to dress as men, and carry weapons, during the time of our exile. But to send them to fight Orcs deliberately, while there are still captains to take their place, is something else altogether.”

“Our shieldmaidens are not sent, my lord,” said Telramund. “They go willingly, for that is how they understand their duty to the Mark; and they take pride in it.”

Thorin shook his head. “I marvel that the King should allow it.”

“It grieves him, to be sure; but he is also proud of his daughter, just as King Fréalaf before him was proud of the lady Ortrud.”

“But would _you_ be happy to see your own daughter swing a sword?”

“Aye,” said Telramund; “when the time comes, and if she shows any inclination, I certainly would. She takes after my wife in many ways, and could not hope for a better instructor.” He smiled, and clapped Thorin over the shoulder. “I can see that you find this strange, my lord. But fear not. Though I too feel protective of them, I daresay our women can look after themselves. In any case, there is no arguing with them. Ortrud just used to laugh and do as she pleased. Helmwyn is worse.”

“How so?”

“She argues back,” said Telramund. “Besides, ever since her husband was slain, she has ruled her own fate, and would suffer none who urges caution. Did you know she had been wed?”

“Aye, I stumbled upon the fact, quite by chance. What happened?”

“He was ambushed by Orcs,” answered Telramund. “A great pity.”

Thorin remembered that it was the Dwarves who had driven the Orcs southwards, and his feelings of guilt stirred again. “I fear I may have grieved her,” he said. “I would know more, lest I offend her without meaning to.”

“I would tell you more, my lord, were it not that I know little of the matter, for she never speaks of it; though whether that be because she mourns him no longer, or because the grief is still too great, I do not know.”

Thorin thought about that. “She does not _look_ grieved,” he said; “unless it be by the attacks on the Mark.”

“Aye, that is true enough,” said Telramund. “But you will find that my niece keeps her own counsel.”

Thorin had to agree to that, too.

“But I will say this,” Telramund went on: “I have not seen her so merry for a long while. She was ever grave, and careworn, and had black moods when there was word of an Orc raid; but since you and your companions arrived, I have seen her smile again. I think your folk have given her hope; hope that something can be done to defend ourselves, and that our efforts are not in vain.”

“She cares deeply about the fate of her people,” said Thorin.

“Aye, that she does; and the people love her for it, as they love the King. It is a great pity that she was born a woman, and his youngest child; for whatever else a woman of the Mark may do, she may not rule. What a queen she would have made!”

Thorin did not answer; but he remembered the dressing-down Helmwyn had given Wulfhere, and smiled, for he too thought so.

***

That evening, after dinner, Thorin’s companions gathered around the table to play _Dwarves and Goblins_. Regin had made a board, and painstakingly carved gaming-pieces from linden wood. The little figures of warriors all wore expressions of wide-eyed terror; although whether this was intentional, or merely resulted from Regin’s lack of skill with faces, Thorin did not know.

The game was played on a chequered board by two opposing sides. In the centre of the board, the Dwarves held a ‘hill’, and endeavoured to defend their King; while the aim of the Goblins was, of course, to storm the hill and capture the Dwarf King.

Thorin thought this was in extremely poor taste, as it invariably made him think of Thrór; and he gave the players a disapproving look, and withdrew to his corner to smoke his pipe. But in truth, the game was ancient, and pre-dated the battle of Azanulbizar by many years; and the parallel with Thrór’s fate was no more than an unfortunate coincidence. In any case, there was nothing Thorin could do to prevent his companions from engaging in such pursuits. He had already spoken sternly to them on this matter, to no avail.

He sat and frowned, as his fellows noisily placed bets using counters – and not actual coin, of course; for Dwarves had too much sense to gamble away real money.

Thorin was uneasy, but this was not only to do with the game. Something the lord Telramund had said that morning had troubled him; something about the lady Helmwyn throwing caution to the wind after her husband had been slain. Thorin had begun to wonder whether her riding out were not a way of courting death. To be sure, she seemed cheerful enough, and had even quipped about her husband’s death; but perhaps she was merely adept at concealing her true feelings. One could never really tell, with females; and they _were_ prone to extreme reactions. There had certainly been a few sad cases, after the battle of Azanulbizar, of widows wandering off into the mountains, never to be seen again.

He did feel partly responsible for her bereavement. After all, it was the wasteful folly of his people’s wars that had driven the Orcs into the Mark. This fair country and these valiant folk were now at war with the very same Orcs that the Dwarves had fought and defeated. Thorin wondered whether he and his companions would have received such a welcome, had the people of the Mark known about this.

Thorin felt compelled to make sure despair were not eating away at the young lady’s heart; for he thought well of her, and would not have one so fair and brave throw her life away in bitterness. And so Thorin resolved that he would sound her out, but cautiously; for though he felt they understood each other in many ways, in others he found her also strange, and guarded.

***

Helmwyn’s _éored_ returned to Helm’s Deep several days later, laden with Orc weapons, and as much iron and steel as they could salvage; for it was the custom of the Rohirrim to burn the corpses of their foes, and to despoil them of their arms, so that none would be left behind for the others.

The lady strode to the camp forge where Thorin was working, along with the other smiths. Her hair was unwashed, and her face was grim and weary, and covered in soot-marks.

“Greetings, Masters!” she called. “My lord,” said she, and nodded to Thorin. “We have brought back some more iron for you. Can you use it?”

“Orc iron is crude and rusted and poorly forged, my lady,” answered Thorin; “but I daresay we shall be able to make something of it.”

“That is good. The works go well?”

“Aye, that they do. Slowly, but well.”

“Good.” She made to leave, but then turned once more to Thorin: “Forgive me if I have been curt, my lord. I will feel more sociable once I have washed off the reek of burnt Orc-flesh.”

“There is nothing to forgive, lady,” he said. “I know that stench well enough.”

She looked into his eyes, and nodded once more, and walked away again; and Thorin wondered whether she were in fact courting death, or whether she had not already seen too much of it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Helmwyn get drunk, and talk about Life, Duty, and other such lofty matters that are best broached while inebriated.

  **THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 18**

 

It was Midsummer, and the folk of Lindburg had built a bonfire on the green, and gathered there to feast, and be merry. Meats were being roasted, and the young people had formed a lively circle of dancers around the fire. Thorin and Helmwyn had agreed to meet under the linden tree to escape the noise and the folk-dancing; and he waited, while the lady ventured among the revellers to find them something to drink.

Thorin sat at ease under the tree, smoking his pipe, and listened to the distant sounds of laughter and fiddle-music. It was a fair evening. The western sky was still light; and the sweet, honeyed scent of linden-blossom hung in the mild air. Thorin felt content - or as close to contentment as he was ever likely to be. He tried blowing smoke-rings for a while, and failed.

Helmwyn strode back over the green towards him; and he saw that she was smiling.

“I have managed to rescue this!” she called, and triumphantly held up a stoneware bottle; “but I fear there were no more cups.”

“Then we shall do without!” he answered.

“It is mead. Will that do?”

Thorin smiled; and she handed him the bottle, and sat down beside him, stretching out her legs in the grass. They leaned against the bole of the tree, and drank, and talked companionably for a while.

Thorin told the lady about the feast days of his people, including the dwarven New Year, which was calculated according to a complex lunar calendar. Helmwyn was impressed. She in turn told him about the standing stones of Dunharrow that were used by ancient peoples to map the motions of the heavens. But her own people were no stargazers, and could only just work out the dates of the solstices using a stick and a length of hemp rope. Thorin had to admit that the moon-charts of his people had perished under the Mountain, along with the astronomers; and that the Dwarves were now unable to predict their feast-days with any accuracy. They now knew Durin’s Day only when it was upon them – and only _if_ there were no clouds.

Helmwyn knew not what to say to this, and there was a lull in the conversation. They sat in silence, and drank some more, listening to the sounds of merrymaking from afar. Thorin thought this might be a good moment to probe the lady’s heart, to make sure she did not harbour any secret death-wish, for that concern had been nagging at him for a while now; though in truth, he had seldom seen her so carefree and cheerful as that evening.

“My lady,” he began tentatively, “the other day I accidentally stumbled upon the fact that your husband had been slain; I must ask you to forgive me if I have caused you any distress.”

He need not have worried about upsetting her, for she was merry from the mead, and answered him brightly: “Do not trouble yourself, my lord. Aye, I am a widow, but that is nothing unusual in the Mark. You need not tread carefully around me on account of that. You did not know, and no one told you; and I daresay that there are other qualities for which I would rather be known. I would have people say: ‘Here is the lady Helmwyn, the reluctant shieldmaiden and dutiful steward, of the house of Eorl! She is fond of song, but her stitching is abominable’ rather than: ‘Here is the lady Helmwyn, who was widowed some five years ago!”

If this were a mask for grief, it was a very good one. Thorin decided on what he thought was a more subtle approach. “Do you not miss your husband?”

Helmwyn took a swig of mead. She had to think about this before answering. “He was certainly a loss to the Mark.”

“Was he a great captain?” he asked, as Helmwyn passed him the bottle.

“He was a good captain, tall and brave and honourable - but then, so are all the men of the Mark, I suppose,” she added with a wry smile. “He was as good a match as any. My father happened to pick one who was nobly born, and of a suitable age, and had proven himself in battle.”

Thorin nearly choked on his mead. “Do you mean this match was made for you?” he spluttered.

“Well, yes. More or less.”

But Thorin was struggling with the concept of arranged marriages. He found it as incomprehensible as the concept of shieldmaidens.

“Forgive me, my lady, but as a Dwarf I find this strange. Our womenfolk may not fight, or even go out much, but at least they are able to choose their own husbands. Whereas you, who lead men into battle…”

Helmwyn shrugged. “Had the match been truly abhorrent, I suppose I could have refused. My father is a kind man, after all.” She did not tell Thorin that she had agreed to the match because she had liked the copper-red hair of her betrothed. It had seemed a good enough reason at the time. She had been young.

“Did you not… love him, then?” asked Thorin in disbelief.

Helmwyn stared at him, for she thought that was a rather strange question. “I am not sure that I know what you mean by that, my lord. If you would know whether I sighed and pined as women do in songs, in truth I did not. But if you would know whether it was a happy marriage, I suppose the answer is yes. Not quite what my uncle and aunt have, to be sure; but I was not really expecting anything of the sort. He was kind to me, and I respected him. I was free to ride and fight, and tried my hand at running his estate. Those were good learning years.”

She took another draught of mead. Perhaps she had already had too much, it was making her talkative. Why was she telling the lord Thorin all of this? And why on earth was he asking? She took this to be a dwarven bluntness of manner, and let it pass. “And then one night, they brought him back, pale and cold, with that Orc arrow through his throat,” said she matter-of-factly. “That was the end of that; but it made me understand a few things.” 

Thorin was a little bewildered by her forthrightness; but he pressed on. “What was it you understood, lady?”

“That even a brave, kind man can die a stupid, pointless death. That he should have worn a gorget. That the Orcs must be driven from the Mark, lest that scene repeat itself in every home throughout the land for years to come.”

“You wanted revenge,” suggested Thorin; for loss, and a desire for revenge, were things that he could understand well enough.

But Helmwyn shook her head. “Nay. What would have been the sense in that? I wanted to save what could still be saved. So I mourned not; but instead, resolved to make myself useful. As soon as the last green turf was laid on his mound, I left for Edoras, and have lived as you see me now ever since.” She spoke with equanimity, but whether she truly felt it, or whether it was a carefully studied mask to conceal her true feelings, Thorin could not tell.

In truth, Helmwyn’s feelings were complex, and there was much she did not tell him, although she could not rightly say why. She did not tell Thorin that she had enjoyed sharing her husband’s bed, but had been relieved when she had lost the child she was carrying; neither did she tell Thorin how little she had grieved over her husband’s death. She had felt sorrow, to be sure, but mostly anger, and a sense of purpose; and also, disturbingly, she had felt free. Perhaps she feared the lord Thorin would think less of her if she told him any of this.

“Besides,” she quipped, “I could not have remained in the Folde; my mother-in-law was dreadful.”

But Thorin pitied her. “Have you no regrets, lady?” he asked her gently. “Do you not sometimes wish for a normal life?”

“Not you as well, my lord!” said Helmwyn with mock indignation. “Do you know, my father also keeps pestering me to wed again. I wonder why.”

“Perhaps he believes it would make you happy. Such is the way of fond fathers with their daughters,” said Thorin, and thought of Thráin’s well-meaning but misguided overindulging of Dís.

“I did what was expected of me once, my lord; but once was enough. Now I would rather do what I expect of myself.”

Thorin thought on this, and gave her a searching look. “And _are_ you happy, my lady?”

“I would be happier without Orcs on our doorstep,” she said, and took another sip of mead. “But in earnest, my lord, can you picture me tied to the hearth, with a child at my hip, and another pulling at my skirts? My spirit would wither,” she told him with almost brutal honesty. “Nay, we must all do what we can for the Mark. And while almost any woman would make a better mother that I would, I daresay that I have my own way of serving my people.”

“With your sword?”

Helmwyn laughed. “Actually, I meant with my wits! My father is a good king, and so no doubt shall my brother Walda be after him; but they are warriors, not clerks; and they cannot be expected to look after the running of the household.”

Thorin was amused by that image. “Is that how you see the stewardship of the land?” he asked with a smile.

“Aye. It is woman’s work, is it not? Only on a larger scale. But I am happy to do it. And though I often curse the cares that come with my duty, I am well aware that I still enjoy greater freedom than any woman in the Mark. I am content with my lot; I only wish I could do more.”

Thorin looked into the lady’s earnest grey eyes, and knew she was speaking the truth. He was unsure quite what he should make of her words, but at least his concern was eased a little. “My lady, I admire your devotion to your people,” he told her. “And I admire you for taking on this duty willingly.”

“Coming from you, my lord, this is high praise indeed,” Helmwyn answered; “for few princes have done as much for their people as you have.”

Thorin took a draught of mead, and his brow was furrowed.

“Do you know,” he said, “in some ways, things were simpler when my people were living from hand to mouth in exile. But now that we are settling again, I find myself having to…help my father decide certain matters.” Thorin trailed off. He wanted to tell the lady about Thráin, about his fears, and his grief over his father’s state; but he could not - not yet, at any rate. So instead he told her about the troublesome burdens of rule. “Things like mining concessions, and trading rights, and tangled inheritance claims. Lady, have you any idea how complex Dwarf mining law is?”

“I honestly don’t think I want to know,” said she.

“Believe me, you do not. Unfortunately dwarven law rests on records and jurisprudence; but when the dragon came, we did not pause to save our scrolls as we fled. That day, along with much else, my people lost the ancient laws and histories of our race; and it was a bitter blow to us, for we honour the written word, and love our ancient scrolls almost as much as we love gold and jewels. And so it now falls to the elders who have been schooled in the lore, and remember, to pronounce on what is lawful, and what is not; but there are but few now who survived the dragon, and the wars, and our long exile. The venerable scholars will launch into bitter disputes, and often enough it is I who must make the final decision.” This was because the King’s word had force of law; but often King Thráin was too withdrawn, or confused, and could not be burdened with these matters, though Thorin did not say it.

Perhaps he’d had too much to drink. He was holding forth, and he knew it. “I hate this, lady,” he told her; “I truly do. I am no lore-master; I am a warrior and a smith. I would be just. But how am I to settle inheritance disputes, when families have been scattered, ‘relatives’ who have not been seen for fifty years suddenly turn up and make their claims, and all the deeds, marriage contracts and family trees have been lost?”

“It sounds dreadful,” said Helmwyn sympathetically.

“It truly is.”

They looked at each other, and both suddenly burst out laughing.

“I am sorry, my lord,” said Helmwyn, wiping away tears of mirth; “this isn’t remotely funny.”

“No, it isn’t, is it” agreed Thorin; “but it is good the be able to laugh about it.” He calmed down, but still smiled. “Thank you, my lady, for listening to me complaining. I know you understand.”

“You have heard me complain enough about crops and timber prices and bookkeeping and Orcs,” she answered; “it is the least I can do to return the courtesy.”

Thorin raised the bottle in a toast.

“To Balin, without whose shrewd advice in legal matters I would be an even angrier Dwarf than I already am.”

He passed the bottle to Helmwyn, who raised it in turn. “To Balin, and to double-entry bookkeeping.”

They drank to Balin; and though it was turning out to be a rather strange evening, it was not uncomfortable, for they felt at ease in each other’s company. Helmwyn grinned, and decided to revenge herself for the rather personal questions Thorin had put to her.

“But what of you, my lord?” she asked him. “Have you wife and child waiting for you in the Blue Mountains?”

Thorin was startled. “I? Nay, not I. To tell you the truth, I had not really thought of it.” This was true enough; and he had never wasted any thoughts on the females who had started making eyes at him since they had settled in Ered Luin.

“But you _are_ the heir of your line.”

“Aye, and I suppose I must one day concern myself with the matter.” Of course, every one wanted the heir of Durin. It was tiresome. “But there is still so much to be done. My people have known war and exile, and now they are weak and scattered wide, and it will be many years, and a great labour, until we may truly call the Blue Mountains home.” Thorin shrugged, and added: “In any case, I am still young by the reckoning of my people.”

“And how old is that?” asked Helmwyn.

“I am sixty-eight years of age.”

She laughed, and would not believe him. “In truth, you are older than the King my father, though to me you look like a man half that age. Your people must be long-lived!”

“It is not unusual for a Dwarf to reach two-hundred-and-fifty,” Thorin told her.

Helmwyn was astounded. “We must appear as mere children to you.”

“Why, how old are you, my lady?” he asked. “Forgive me, but I find it hard to tell with Men.”

“I am merely twenty-five.”

“Well, to me you look like a woman twice that age.”

She laughed again. “I shall take that as a compliment!” said she; but Thorin knew the weight of duty, and cares she bore, for one of her years; and he thought her not in the least a child.

He thought he understood the lady a little better now, although in truth her answers had not been the answers he had expected. And though he still could not quite fathom her, he was reassured; for he guessed that what she craved was not death, but freedom to rule her own fate. But always, always, her chief concern was the good of the Mark, and of its people; just as he himself thought ever of his people, and of his house.

And though he had told her true, that nothing had been further from his mind than taking a wife, Thorin began to think that when he did - for one day he would have to - he would like to find one as brave, and shrewd, and spirited as the lady of Rohan.


	20. Chapter 19

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 19**

One evening, the lady Helmwyn announced that she would be riding to Edoras for a few days. She had been gone too long, said she, and there would be business there requiring her attention. But she asked the Dwarves whether any of them wished to go with her, for now the works were advancing well, and they could be spared for a little while, except perhaps Hogni and Snorri.

Andvari and Regin did not fancy riding, and said they would rather stay. But Thorin said he would be glad to visit the master smiths of Edoras; and Balin hoped to be able to talk to King Brytta about their pay, for here that issue seemed to have been well and truly dropped. And Dwalin welcomed a change in his routine, and mused vaguely about drilling those Edoras guards with their fine armour, and more particularly about giving that Gunnwald a sound thrashing. And so it was decided.

The ride back to Edoras seemed to the Dwarves much shorter that the ride out; for riding to and fro between Lindburg and Helm’s Deep, they had become considerably more proficient horsemen than when they had first arrived in the Mark. They came to the city in the late afternoon; and since there was still some time before supper, the lady Helmwyn went into Meduseld to see what paperwork awaited her; but the three Dwarves stopped by the barracks to greet Amleth. He was glad to see them, and eagerly listened to their news of the Westfold; and when Dwalin told him of his scheme to sit in on the guards’ training, and Amleth welcomed the suggestion. “Now shall I see you wield all those fearsome weapons at last!” said he, and laughed.

***

The Dwarves made their way up the hill to the great hall. The King was there, and welcomed them, and the lady Helmwyn had changed out of her riding leathers into a fair gown, and joined them at the table. Brytta was glad of this gathering, and asked the Dwarves about the histories and wars of their people, and told them many heroic tales of his own; but the lady Helmwyn was subdued, and did not speak, and it seemed to Thorin that she looked pale and troubled.

After the meal she asked him if he would sit with her by the fire, for she had something to tell him; and he found that strange, for they had often sat together in friendship, and talked, and never had there been any need for a formal request. So they sat by the fire, and Thorin asked her what weighed on her mind. Helmwyn took a deep breath.

“My lord, I…I was searching through my books for anything pertaining to dragons, thinking it might interest you,” said she in a low voice, almost a whisper, as though she did not wish to be overheard; “…and I chanced upon the tale of Scatha the Worm and Frám the dragonslayer. Know you this tale?” _(1)_

“Every Dwarf knows it,” said Thorin, and frowned.

“I know it too,” said the lady; “but to my shame I had forgotten an essential part of the story.” Then, in painful earnest: “My lord, Frám used your people most ill.”

“Aye, that he did,” said Thorin; and indeed that tale still rankled with the Dwarves.

“I make no excuses for him, my lord,” said she. “His deeds are naught but plunder. His treatment of your kin was dishonourable.”

“That is beyond dispute.” He failed to see what she was driving at. “But what mean you by this, my lady? What is this old tale to you?”

“Do you not know, my lord?” Helmwyn looked at him, fearful to tell him what she must. “My lord, Frám was one of the fathers of my house. He was the grandsire of Eorl the Young, who rode south with his people and settled in the Mark. In the vaults beneath Meduseld, there is still gold from Scatha’s hoard. The gilding that adorns this very hall-”

She broke off, dreading his reaction. Thorin remained silent for a while, then gave a low, mirthless laugh.

“Aye, I remember thinking that cup must be of dwarven make,” said he, recalling the day she had welcomed them before the doors of Meduseld.

Helmwyn felt utterly crushed. She expected him to interrupt her at any moment, or to storm out in a towering rage, cursing the faithlessness of Men, never to return. She plunged on: “My lord, it is a source of deep, smarting shame to me that the ancient heirlooms of my house were stolen from your people. I must make amends for this.”

Thorin was angry, though not at the lady; but glancing at her, he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears of hot shame, and was dismayed.

“I have not the authority to return these things,” she went on, “but I shall do what I can to make this right. I shall go to the King my father, and plead with him-”

“Nay, lady, I beg you-” Thorin laid his hand upon hers, for he could not bear to see her thus aggrieved. “If this gold be bought with a single one of your tears, I should think the price too dear, and would not have it,” he told her, and marvelled that he meant every word of it.

The lady gave him a searching look. “You are kind, my lord,” said she, and brushed away the heavy tears that hovered on her eyelashes. “But I speak in earnest. I would not lose your friendship, or that of your people, over things of gold and silver.”

“Nor would I lose yours, or that of your people, over an old grudge _(2)_.”Thorin looked into the lady’s grave eyes, then turned away sadly. “There are, after all, newer and more bitter grudges for my people to bear,” said he with a crooked smile. Helmwyn knew he spoke of the Mountain, and squeezed his hand, and they stared into the fire in silence for a while.

Thorin thought gloomily of the ancestral discontent every Dwarf still felt at the mention of Scatha’s hoard, and of how that paled into insignificance compared with the devastation Smaug had wrought upon the Mountain. The images of slaughter and ruin were still vivid in his mind’s eye, and ever haunted his dreams.

Yet he was grateful for the lady’s presence; it soothed him, for he felt that she understood his sense of duty, and his loss. But Thorin was also grieved by her shame and sorrow; and he cast around for something to say that would cheer her.

“Do you know,” he told her, “I think should now be glad to have a necklace of dragon teeth.”

They both smiled wistfully. “A rare thing indeed,” she said. “But surely you would not give all the gold in Erebor for it.”

“Of course not. But any dragonslayer who brings down Smaug might receive a reward. IF he were courteous, and I were in a generous mood.”

Helmwyn saw that he was trying to lighten the mood, and was grateful and relieved that he seemed to bear her no ill will on account of Scatha’s hoard. But Thorin felt uneasy, for he knew that the Dwarves were not blameless in the plight of the Mark, and he thought that now was as good a time as any to tell her, since they were being forthright with one another. His face became grave once more, and he said:

“But now it is I who must risk your wrath, my lady, for I too have something to tell you.”

“What is it, my lord? What could you possibly have done to anger me?”

“These Orc-raids on the Mark, when did they begin?” he asked.

“It must have been fifteen years ago.”

“Aye, it is as I feared,” said Thorin. “My lady, the Orcs that have been plaguing you are the remnants of the hosts that my people fought and slaughtered, and drove from the Misty Mountains. We are the ones who drove them south, my lady. We have brought this evil upon you.”

Helmwyn gazed at him sadly. “Of course you did, my lord.” She had known all along. In truth, it had not been so hard to guess. “But it could not be helped, and I will not begrudge you your war upon the Orcs, for it was a just one.”

Thorin hung his head. “I wonder. We avenged King Thrór, aye, but many of my people were slain, and the halls of our fathers remain lost to us.”

“Your war was just, my lord, because war upon the Orcs is always just. Should you have let them spawn unchecked? Then in time they would have come south anyway, only their numbers would have been immeasurably greater.”

“It may be so.”

“It is so,” said Helmwyn, and her eyes were shining. “But you and your people have dealt them a grievous blow, and shown the other Free Peoples that the Orcs can be fought and defeated, as long as there are any to fight them. I for one take hope in your deeds. The people of the Mark shall finish what you started; and I am glad that you are here to help us.”

Brave and noble heart, thought Thorin. He suddenly felt a great surge of gentleness towards the lady, and wished that he could protect her somehow; but he knew there was not much he could do.

“I thank you for your gracious words, my lady,” he said at last; “and I shall do whatever is in my power to help you. But I beg you, at least let us settle that wretched business of Scatha’s hoard. As I recall, the tale of Scatha, as it is told among my people, ends with my kin slaying Frám and recovering part of the treasure. Was it also thus in your account?”

“Aye, my lord, according to some versions.”

“Then perhaps you will consider the remainder of the hoard as blood-money, and we shall hold ourselves even, and leave it at that.”

Helmwyn considered that. “Very well, if that is your wish. Of course,” she added, “you and your companions shall receive a few symbolic items as gifts, as a token of friendship between our peoples.”

“You drive a hard bargain, my lady,” said Thorin with a smile. “Done.”

“Done,” said Helmwyn, and hesitated. “Perhaps it would be best not to mention this to your companions quite yet.”

“Indeed,” Thorin agreed. “I would not upset them unnecessarily. After all, the matter is resolved. And you will not tell your kin of the reason the Orcs have come south?”

“They care little for history. I will not trouble them with it.”

She smiled, and he smiled back, and both were relieved. They shared an understanding, a trust, perhaps even a friendship; but whatever they chose to call it, they felt it was something rare, and precious, and both were glad that it was unbroken.

***

Back at the great table, Balin was fuming.

“Brother, I need to talk to you,” he said in the dwarven tongue; and he sat himself squarely down opposite his brother, and looked him sternly in the eye. “It can’t go on like this.”

Dwalin knew what was coming, and looked sheepishly into his mug of ale. “Look, it’s not what you think,” he said. “It’s just friendship.”

“It’s all very well, being friendly with the lady,” said Balin; “but I feel there might be rather more than just friendship here.”

“Well, you have to admit that she’s a fine woman,” said Dwalin defensively.

“Be that as it may. A Dwarf and a human woman, that’s just _wrong_.”

Dwalin put down his mug. “All right, I see what you’re getting at. And I’ll admit it, I do admire the lady Ortrud. But I swear to you, I would never actually do anything embarrassing.”

Balin stared at his brother. “Who said anything about you? I’m talking about _him_!”

They both turned to watch Thorin and Helmwyn as they sat by the fire with their heads close together.

Dwalin shook his head. “Nah. You’re imagining things. He’s just glad to have someone to talk to.”

“He can talk to us,” said Balin a little petulantly.

“Well, we’ve been listening to him for forty-odd years,” said Dwalin; “he must have noticed our eyes glazing over. For her, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet, see? He likes an audience, and she looks like a lass who enjoys all that heavy, epic stuff about honour and duty. It’s cultural.”

Balin harrumphed, but he was not convinced. “You know, I think he might not actually realise what’s going on. But I don’t want to say anything, because I’d rather not put any ideas into his head. You know what he’s like. Once he’s made up his mind about something…”

Dwalin glanced over Balin’s shoulder, and saw that Thorin was now holding the lady’s hand. He did not mention this. Instead he told his brother: “ _If_ you’re right - and I’m not saying you are - I think she’d be good for him.”

Balin wondered whether his brother was being deliberately provocative. “I can’t believe you just said that. Do you realise what a mess this would mean? Thráin will go spare!”

Dwalin tactfully refrained from pointing out that Thráin had already, by all accounts, gone spare.

Balin caught his eye, and sighed. “One way or the other, it’ll break his heart, brother; you mark my words.”

“Whose? Thráin’s or Thorin’s?”

Balin glared at his brother. “Both.”

Dwalin took a swig of ale, and pondered this. At last he said: “Well, it could be worse.”

“ _How?_ ” asked Balin darkly.

Dwalin shrugged. “Look at it this way: at least she’s not an Elf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “Of Frám, they say that he slew Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin, and the land had peace from the long-worms afterwards. Thus Frám won great wealth, but was at feud with the Dwarves, who claimed the hoard of Scatha. Frám would not yield them a penny, and sent to them instead the teeth of Scatha made into a necklace, saying: ‘Jewels such as these you will not match in your treasuries, for they are hard to come by.’ Some say that the Dwarves slew Frám for this insult.” - The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A
> 
> (2) In Dwarf culture, gold and silver are generally considered perfectly good reasons to fall out. As are old grudges. It wasn’t even that old a grudge – only 4 centuries ago. This may be an indication that Thorin was not quite himself at that time.


	21. Chapter 20

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 20**

The following morning, the lady Helmwyn walked down to the great smithy that stood in Edoras; and the lord Thorin came with her, for he was curious to see the best smiths of the Mark at work. Helmwyn had commissioned a suit of armour of her own, though she had long held out, thinking it an unnecessary extravagance. But as the menace of the Orcs would not abate, but grew steadily worse, and it looked increasingly likely that she would need it, she had asked the master smiths for armour after the fashion of the Mark, but as light as they could make it; for she did not wish to trade her wretched second-hand hauberk for something twice as heavy.

Outside it was a bright day, but inside the forge it was ever dim. “Good morrow, Masters!” Helmwyn called as she entered the forge. “How is my fair new gown coming along?”

“Good morrow, my lady!” answered one of the smiths, a huge fellow with red hair and a bristling beard. “We heard of your coming, and have assembled everything. With any luck, this should be the final fitting”

“This is glad news, Master Weyland," said she; “and indeed I look forward to seeing it finished!”

The master smith showed her to a workbench where the various elements of the armour lay. And there was also a quilted gambeson, onto which gussets of bright mail had been sewn at the throat and armpits; for though the lady wanted no unnecessary weight, and refused a hauberk, she was also prudent, and strengthened the points where she herself would strike. The gambeson had a high collar, and on it would be sewn metal plates, for she was wary of Orc-arrows to the throat.

She removed her riding-coat, and tried on the gambeson over her shirt; and it was tight-fitting, but she could move well in it. Next, the smiths held the elements of the breastplate around her, for it was made up of several overlapping sections; and it seemed that whatever changes they had made were satisfactory, and so it was decided that the breastplate was ready to be embossed, inlaid with leather, gilded, and assembled. Helmwyn laughed, and said she could do without the gilding; but the smiths took pride in their craft, and answered that they would make her armour as well as they could. “But are you sure you want it so adjusted, my lady?” asked Njarl, the older smith. “You might yet listen to me and start eating properly!” and she smiled, for at every fitting he told her off for being too thin.

The great red-haired smith left his colleagues to see to the lady’s spaulders and went to salute the lord Thorin.

“I am called Weyland, my lord. They say that you too are a smith?”

“Aye, that I am,” answered Thorin; “and I am glad to meet you at last, for I have seen fair armour and weapons here in the Mark, and should like to see you work!”

“Well, my lord, I would be honoured to show you what we can do, but these days we are chiefly busy turning out simple weapons for the troops. The lady’s armour was one interesting commission, but that is almost finished now.”

“It does look excellently made,” said Thorin, and meant it.

He looked around the forge, and his eyes rested on some flat steel plates; and a sudden notion came to him. “Tell me, Master Weyland, how do you feel about pattern-welding? I have a mind to try my hand at a project that might interest you,” Thorin said; and he turned and looked pointedly at the lady, who was trying on her vambraces, and asking Njarl whether it might be possible to affix a knife on the inside.

The great smith took the hint. “Aye, it does interest me,” answered Weyland. “Well, my lord, if you are around for a few days, you are welcome in this forge. I daresay you shall teach us a thing or two, for the skill of Dwarves at metalwork is said to be very great.” And the two smiths exchanged a conspiratorial look.

The others were holding together the various elements of the lady’s helm for a final fitting before assembly. She heard Thorin and Weyland talking; and she caught snatches of conversation about different qualities of steel, and fire, and billets, whatever those may be, and she smiled to herself, for they seemed to be getting along famously.

Next she tried on a skirt of leather and bronze scales. This worried her, for it was still unfinished, and would doubtless be heavy; but it was necessary, for Riders were vulnerable to leg-wounds, and she was cautious about her hamstrings. At least it would help her to remain grounded, she thought.

When Helmwyn had tried everything on, she also took off the gambeson, for it was getting hot in the forge. Thorin too had taken off his coat, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and was already heating something in the fire, and watched it intently while Weyland worked the bellows. But in that moment Helmwyn turned around, and beheld the lord Thorin, and she saw that his eyes shone in the light of the forge. And all of a sudden Helmwyn felt flushed, and could not breathe; and she excused herself, and stepped outside for some air.

She went to bathe her face in a barrel of rainwater, and tried to cool her burning cheeks.

“Are you not well, my lady?” asked Njarl, who had come after her, concerned.

She held on to the barrel, for her knees were weak.

“Thank you, Njarl; it is nothing. It must be the heat.”

But it was not the heat, for her heart was racing and her hands shook; and now she understood that she loved the lord Thorin, and the realisation had winded her like a blow to the stomach.

She splashed some more cold water on her face and tried to pull herself together. “Maybe you are right, Njarl. Maybe I should take your advice and eat something,” said she, as reassuringly as she could.

She went back inside to retrieve her coat, and wish them all a good day, and tried to escape as quickly as possible; and she saw that Thorin was now holding the red-hot billet, and was about to start hammering it out. But as she was leaving, he looked up at her from under his black brows, and smiled.

***

Helmwyn strode back to Meduseld with as much apparent calm as she could muster, though her stomach was churning and she felt as though her knees would give under her. It was all she could do not to race the length of the seemingly endless hall, until at last she came to her chamber, and shut the door, and sat down in a corner of the floor, hugging her knees. She closed her eyes, and listened to her ragged breaths, and felt her heart hammering against her ribs.

In her mind’s eye she saw him, standing quiet and masterful in the light of the forge, and her heart tightened in an acute pang of love. She thought back through all the time they had spent together, and tried to pinpoint the moment when this could have started. As she thought about it, it seemed to her, as it always does in such cases, that she had loved him from the moment her eyes had first met his; only she had not known it then. All this time, she had not known. She, who knew all the songs, but did not believe them. She, who thought that tales of love were merely peddled to young girls in order to keep them quiet until they were married off.

Of course, she knew the deep, steady love of kin and friends and country; but not this, nothing like this. This hurt. Her heart burned as hot as the forge. And she did not think there was anything to be _done_ with this knowledge, except to bear it.

Helmwyn was dismayed. She mourned the trust and the closeness she had shared with the lord Thorin; for now that she understood how she felt, how was she ever to regain her free and easy manner with him? How, when her heart quaked at the very thought of him?

She allowed herself to weep a little, but not much; for she could not face remaining idle, and brooding on this. Instead she dried her tears, got up, composed herself, and went down into the vaults to make an inventory of what was left of Scatha’s hoard.


	22. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are quite a few pics out there of Thorin doing Bitter Smithing; but I thought I’d get him to do some Happy Smithing, for a change.

**  
THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 21**

 

Helmwyn ran her fingers through the hoard. There were strange coins, little ingots, strips and twists of gold wire, arm-rings and neck-rings, mounts and brooches. There were chains and pins and cups and horns and weapons, plain or engraved or set with coloured stones.

The yellow metal shone prettily enough, to be sure; but to Helmwyn gold had but one purpose: to buy grain and weapons. How one could lust after it for its own sake was beyond her. But she thought of the lord Thorin’s words, and remembered what he had told her about gold being to his people what horses where to hers: a part of their identity. She wished to do right by him, and by his people, and she wanted to give them at least some of these things – in payment, but also, partly, in reparation of their ancestral wrong.

She could not tell what was ancient and what was not; it all looked the same to her. For all she knew, all of this was from Scatha’s hoard. But she could not give away all the gold in Meduseld merely because her conscience stung her. She also had the Mark to consider.

She thought of asking the lord Thorin’s advice, for he now knew of the origins of the treasure, and yet bore her no ill-will on account of that. Surely he would be able to tell her which of these things were ancient, and of dwarven make. She pictured him picking up the golden things, turning them in his great hands, eyeing them expertly, smiling when he recognized the work of his forefathers.

No, on second thoughts, she would not ask him. Perhaps later, when she had steeled herself a little. Right now, being alone in the vaults with him was more than she could face.

Helmwyn looked at the pile of gold, and sighed.

She reflected that the Dwarves’ fee ought to be a mixture of things that were fair, things that were useful, and things that could be melted down for bullion. It seemed fair; and in any case, it was the best solution she could think of for the moment.

“Osric?” she called. “Do you have your ledger ready? And some scales? Good. Let us catalogue this mess.”

***

The three smiths hammered the red-hot billet each in turn, drawing it out, until Thorin bade them stop, and heated it again, and folded it upon itself. They beat it out again, in precise, rhythmic motions born of long practice; and now they hammered out the billet until it formed a long, square rod.

Thorin turned to the apprentice, who stood by the anvil with a wire-brush, ready to clean off the scale from the glowing billet. “Would you do me a favour, lad? Run to the hall, and see if you can borrow the lady’s sword. She did not wear it today. If anyone asks, say you are to bring it for sharpening.”

The boy ran off, and Thorin placed another layered billet into the fire. “I thank you for your help, Masters,” he said. “I could do it on my own, but then I would be at it for days, and I do not have that long. But with the three of us, we shall make good progress on these rods!”

“We do it gladly, my lord. The sooner this is done, the sooner we’ll get to the truly interesting parts,” said Weyland.

“Aye, and then we can just watch” added Njarl, and grinned.

They were working on the second rod when the apprentice returned with the sword. “Well done, Hrolf,” said Weyland; “just put it on the workbench, there’s a good lad. Now come back here and get brushing!”

When they had finished the second rod, the smiths went to examine the sword.

“Hey, I know that one!” exclaimed Njarl. “That’s one I made for young lord Waldred when he was a growing lad.”

“It is a fine weapon, Master Njarl!” said Thorin, drawing the sword and testing its weight and balance; “but I fear young lord Waldred must already have been taller than the lady is now. This is too long for her. I shall take a couple of inches off-” Thorin thought aloud, and began marking the outlines of a sword on the workbench in chalk. “- there, that should do; and I’ll bring the balance closer to the grip. See? This one balances an inch or so below the crossguard,” said he, balancing the sword on his outstretched fingers. “So let’s give it a bit of a taper. And a heavier pommel. Right.” Thorin checked the rods they had just forged against the chalk outline. They were just about the length of the blade; but these were the edge-billets, so that was well. “Thank you, Hrolf, you can bring the sword back to Meduseld. Masters, let us get to work on the core rods!”

These did not require folding, and the three smiths made a good team. It was past noon when they rested; and three more rods lay on the workbench between the edge-billets. It was dark in the forge, for smiths need to be able to judge the temperature of the hot iron by its colour; but they sent the apprentice for some food, and sat outside in the sunshine, and talked of their craft. And Thorin insisted that they stop calling him ‘my lord’, for he felt a sense of fellowship with these men. They took a good long rest, for the next stage was going to be tricky.

At last they went back in, and Thorin heated the end of one of the core rods; and when it glowed, Weyland grasped the end with tongs and twisted it on itself. Thorin and Njarl held it fast, and Weyland shouted at Hrolf to brush the scale away, lest any became caught in the folds of the metal and weakened the blade. Hrolf did as he was told, and was amazed that the metal would not break; and indeed, it took all of Weyland’s skill to know when to stop twisting.

The rod was put back into the fire, and the next section was heated and twisted, and the next, and the next. And when at last the three twisted rods lay on the workbench, Thorin clapped Njarl and Weyland on the shoulder (or tried at least, for Weyland was very tall), and even gave Hrolf an affectionate cuff behind the head, for he certainly could not have done that without help, and was relieved that all had gone well.

They took another rest, and Thorin tried to clear his head; for during this next stage, he would be alone. It would be just him and the sword. This was the part he loved most, the part that would truly test his skill: the part that would give the sword its soul. He did not speak, but went and bound the five rods together into a single billet, using steel brackets. And Weyland and Njarl watched him, but kept a respectful silence, and made sure Hrolf did so too; for they knew what lay before Thorin.

He placed the sword-billet into the fire, and watched it closely so that it would not overheat; and when he judged the colour to be right, he sprinkled some borax on it, took it out of the fire and began to hammer it carefully, so that the rods would be welded together. He used not the mighty hammer-blows he had used earlier to draw out the rods; for this operation required control, and concentration, and above all patience. Once hasty blow, and the blade would be spoiled. He removed the brackets, and worked his way slowly down the length of the blade, hammering the rods together, but without drawing the blade out too much, or risking ruining the pattern.

It was a long process, but Thorin felt he was beginning to know the sword, to sense its personality; and he worked on her lovingly, for he sensed that she (this one was definitely a she) was going to be a beauty. In the end, he checked the blade against the chalk outline, and let it cool. If he had been negligent, she might spring apart later; but he felt he had lavished all his attention on her. Weyland and Njarl had watched him intently, and came to him with words of approval, and Hrolf emerged as from a daze, for he had never seen anything like this.

Thorin stepped outside, and saw that it was sunset; and he realised he was weary, perhaps even more in mind than in body. He bathed his face and neck and arms in cold water, and breathed the fresh clean air, and stood for a moment enjoying the feeling of quiet satisfaction he always got from work well done. Not that he had had much occasion to do such fine work during his exile; or if he did, it was for his own people. But making such a sword, if it took a lot out of him, also gave him the greatest possible satisfaction he could know in his work as a smith. It was like giving birth.

He went back inside for one more step. “Will you not call it a day?” said Weyland to him. “You’ve been at it since this morning!”

“I would finish the point tonight, Masters,” answered Thorin; “but you need not linger here on my account if you would rest!”

“Nay,” said Weyland, “I would watch this part. For you did not wrap the edge about the core, as I would have done, and I am curious to see how you will go about the point!”

Thorin made some markings on the blade, then heated it; and when he took it out of the fire, he bade Weyland hold the blade, while he chiselled off a triangular wedge from the end. Then he heated it again, applied borax, and proceeded to weld the edges of the gap together with careful strokes of his hammer.

Thorin was checking the point for symmetry when Dwalin knocked on the door of the forge. “So this is where you’ve been hiding all day!” said he. “You’ve missed dinner.” He came in, followed by his brother Balin, and they nodded to the smiths but said no more, for they knew better than to disturb Thorin when he was working.

In the end, Thorin heated the whole length of the blade once more, and hung it up so that it might cool overnight.

“Well, my friends, you must forgive me,” he said. “It has been a busy day, but I do not have long for this, and do not wish to leave it unfinished! But how did you fellows entertain yourselves?”

“Oh, famously! Dwalin had this notion of playing drill sergeant to those Royal Guards; and guess who was there? Our friend, young Gunnwald!” Balin chuckled. “You should have seen the look on his face when he saw Dwalin charging at him!”

Dwalin grinned. “I’ve never seen him Balin struggle so hard to contain his laughter. He went purple in the face, trying not to giggle.”

“Aye,” said Balin, “it was priceless. But our friend Amleth kept a lid on things, and got his lads training properly; and that Gunnwald got away with a fright.”

Thorin smiled, for he was glad to see his friends in such merry spirits. He turned to the smiths, and bade them a good night, and told them he looked forward to seeing them again on the morrow; and the three Dwarves walked slowly back up the hill to Meduseld.

“Shall we drop by the kitchens?” asked Balin. “It’s a bit late, but you might still be able to get a bowl of soup.”

“I will do so gladly, if you can lead the way!” said Thorin, for he realised now that he was famished. “I must apologize to the King and the lady tomorrow; I suppose it was rather rude of me to disappear like that.”

“Oh, the King won’t mind, I don’t think he’s the formal type,” said Dwalin. “And the lady wasn’t there either. She was feeling out of sorts, or had work to do, or something.” Thorin hoped she wasn’t still upset over that business with Scatha’s hoard. Maybe she _was_ unwell. She had looked a little feverish, that morning in the forge.

“Speaking of the lady”, said he, “I would be grateful if you two could remain discreet about what I’m doing in that forge. I would like to surprise her.”

“You mean that sword is for _her_?” exclaimed Balin in disbelief.

“Well of course,” answered Thorin. “It’s about time she had a proper one. Don’t you think so, Dwalin?”

Dwalin mumbled something to the effect that it was, but he was a little distracted by the heavily significant look Balin was giving him. It all but screamed ‘I told you so’.


	23. Chapter 22

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 22**

 

Thorin slept a deep, untroubled sleep, and rose refreshed, and eager to continue his work at the forge. He strode into the great hall with a spring in his step, and greeted the assembled company. It was rather subdued. Balin’s face was closed, and the lady Helmwyn had dark circles under her eyes; and as for Dwalin, he was eyeing his bowlful of mixed nuts, grains and berries balefully. King Brytta was his usual self however, and wished him a sonorous good morrow.

“Well, Thorin Thráinsson!” boomed the King. “Is it the company of smiths that put you in such good spirits?”

“Aye, my lord, it is!”

“So what is it you have been working on all this time?”

“Oh, this and that,” answered Thorin evasively. “But these smiths are excellent fellows, and masters of their craft; and we have much to talk about!”

“I am glad you are finding your stay profitable - as are your companions, from what I have heard” said the King with a wide grin.

“Aye, I too have heard that tale,” smiled Thorin. But now he turned to Helmwyn, who was picking at her food with downcast eyes: “Might I ask how you are faring this morning, my lady? For I heard you were not well.”

Helmwyn looked up, startled. “Oh. Thank you, my lord, but it is nothing. Well, not nothing. It is taxes. Taxes quite rob me of my sleep.”

The King patted his daughter’s hand affectionately. “So that’s why you were closeted with Osric in the vaults all day. Poor child.”

“It is always the same, Father; I return from Lindburg to find the wretched paperwork has piled up in my absence,” said she with a wan smile; but she did not meet the lord Thorin’s eye.

***

Later, Helmwyn sat at her table, and stared at Osric’s ledgers, which lay open before her. She had intended to apply Balin’s bookkeeping methods to them, to spot any discrepancies, any negligence, any fraud. She had really meant to do this. She had ridden back to Edoras for this. But instead she found herself staring blankly at the figures, while her mind was elsewhere.

In the end she gave up, and reached for another book, and laid it on the open ledgers. She skimmed through the pages, looking for any mention of dragons, especially in connection with Durin’s folk. She half-remembered that there were tales that spoke of this; but of course, when she had last read them, she had not had the same interest in Dwarves, or in dragons. _(1)_

Thus did she come upon the tale of Azaghâl and Glaurung _(2)._ And she read about the great Dwarf king, and his valiant stand against the Worm, and his death; but in her mind, he took on the features of Thorin Oakenshield, undaunted, in golden armour, breathing his last in a bold and glorious deed.

Helmwyn shuddered.

***

It was another glad day spent in the forge; and while Thorin worked on his blade, Njarl and Weyland were busy with the lady’s armour, which they had neglected the previous day. The three smiths laboured in industrious silence, and the only sounds were those of tools on metal.

Thorin carefully worked on the bevels of the sword, always making sure that the blade remained straight, and taking care not to deform the pattern. When he had finished, he let it cool, and went to watch the others as they embossed the lady’s armour. They were using a quatrefoil pattern, and told him this was a device of the House of Eorl. He left them to it, and went to file the scale off the blade, before setting to work at the grindstone.

It was a tricky business, grinding the fullers, and required a steady hand; but he worked slowly, and constantly checked his progress, and was rewarded for his patience when he saw the rippling pattern emerge on the blade. He saw that the pattern was perfectly centred; and, pleased, he proceeded to grind the bevels. The rest of the day was spent in filing, grinding and sanding, which was tedious enough, but none the less essential, for grind-marks had to be eliminated, lest they cause the blade to shatter.

Balin and Dwalin had a notion that Thorin might miss dinner again, and came down to the forge that evening with some food. “How was your day, laddie?” asked Balin with studied geniality.

“A day spent at the grindstone, my friend,” answered Thorin. “But you’ve arrived just in time for the moment of truth! This is when we shall find out whether my seams hold up,” said he, and placed the blade into the fire once more, and worked the bellows. Njarl and Weyland watched in silence, for they knew this was a tense moment; but Dwalin sidled up to Hrolf the apprentice, and told him, in a stage whisper: “If the blade cracks or warps, you’d better leg it, my lad, because Thorin here might start throwing things.”

“I heard that!” said Thorin from across the forge. But Dwalin was right. The smallest defect in the metal might cause the blade to crack upon quenching; and if that happened, Thorin could not answer for his reaction, after all the attention he had lovingly lavished on this sword. There was nothing for it but to trust to his experience, and his skill, and his instinct for metalwork; and when he judged the moment to be right, he pulled the glowing blade from the fire, offered up a silent prayer to Mahal, and plunged the blade into the oil.

***

The first stars were coming out, and Thorin walked back to Meduseld on his own. Perhaps he should have quenched the blade in horse-blood, he thought; that would have been appropriate, although he wondered whether the people of the Mark would have been willing to bleed one of their steeds for this. But it mattered not. The blade had held, and he was relieved. He had sent Balin and Dwalin off to dinner, for he still needed to temper the blade; and to tell the truth, he enjoyed working in the forge after hours, when all else was quiet. Now, walking up the hill, he felt at peace with himself and the world; and that was rare enough for him to savour the moment.

He wondered whether he would find anyone still in the hall; and indeed, Balin and Dwalin were still sitting with the King and some of his captains, and drinking companionably. But the lady Helmwyn sat away from the others, curled by the fire with a book in her lap. Thorin felt a little self-conscious, for he was sweat-stained, and covered in grime and metal filings, and he reeked of hot oil; but they greeted him, and King Brytta offered him a mug of ale, which he accepted gratefully.

Helmwyn did not join them, but pretended to read, as she had been doing all evening. Indeed, she could not face making conversation, but neither did she want to arouse any more comments by retiring early; and bringing a book had seemed to her the best way of being left alone. But Thorin saw that she sat on her own, with her hair loose, and the same blue gown as on the day he had first seen her; and she seemed to him pensive, and very lovely. He was in good spirits, and walked affably over to her by the fire.

“So, _did_ you find out anything interesting about dragons, my lady?” he asked her. “We…talked of other things the night before last, and you never told me what else you had found in your books.”

Helmwyn looked up at Thorin; and her heart tightened at the sight of him, work-stained and smiling.

“Let us not talk about this now, my lord, I beg you,” said she with a forced smile; “for I see that you are in a good mood, and would not spoil it with talk of such matters.”

But Thorin laughed. “Is it not better, rather, to discuss these things while I _am_ in a good mood? Come, lady; let us sit and talk, you and I.”

Helmwyn’s throat suddenly felt dry. She wanted to run away, or else throw her arms about him; but she did neither, and instead bade him sit with her, as they always did.

“My lord,” she began, “I … I have been thinking about what you said to me some time ago – about retaking the Mountain.”

Thorin thought that she looked uneasy.

“What is it, lady? Would you advise me against it?”

“I would not presume to advise you, my lord, for I am not learned in this matter,” answered Helmwyn; “all I can do is to collect what little lore I have here and to put it at your disposal, to do with as you please. It may help you, or it may not.”

Thorin gave her a searching look. “I would hear what you have to say, my lady.”

Helmwyn took a deep breath. “It seems to me…that if the deed must be attempted at all, your chance may lie in wit and stealth.”

“Wit and stealth?” said Thorin. “What mean you?”

“Well…first of all, it seems that though a dragon can slaughter entire armies, such a beast may be slain by one man, if the tales be true.” She leafed through her book, a _Legendarium_ compiled in Gondor, which was her most prized possession. “Thus it is in the lay of Túrin, who concealed himself in a crevice and stabbed the worm Glaurung as he crawled above him; but that is an ancient song _(3)_. The tale of Frám says much the same though, and that is not so old; and your people have memory of it as well, so I am inclined to believe it.”

Thorin listened intently to her words, and thought hard upon them. He remembered the fate of Azaghâl, and his mood was grave once more. “So you would counsel me not to attempt this by strength of arms?”

“Thought the chances be slender, one swordsman may succeed where an army would not, if there be such a fissure in the Mountain where he might conceal himself, and strike.”

Thorin thought of the dragon’s scaly hide, and tried to remember if there were any cellars or passageways in Erebor whence one might strike at the beast’s soft underbelly. He found, to his shame, that he could not remember the Mountain well enough. Dispirited, he asked her: “And was there aught else in your books?”

“Is it true that dragons have wit and speech, as it is said in the tales?” Helmwyn asked.

“Smaug did not stop to introduce himself when he took the Mountain, my lady,” said Thorin; “so I cannot vouch for him. But I have heard it said that the dragons do have intelligent minds, albeit evil ones; and indeed that they are no common beasts, but servants of an ancient Enemy, for no beast has such greed, malice and pride.”

“Aye, and there perhaps lies your chance,” she said; “for greed can be baited, malice can be tempted, and pride can be flattered. Although it must be hard to deceive a dragon, and dangerous to try, yet such flaws have ever been the downfall of the mighty. Perhaps a skilled flatterer might lure the dragon out, and give a lone swordsman a chance to strike.”

Thorin brooded on this. It was a wild and dangerous scheme, and seemed quite hopeless; but then, so was the notion of fighting Smaug with the tattered remains of his people’s forces. After all, they had been unable to stop him when they had been at the height of their strength. The Dwarves of Belegost long ago, with their thick armour and their fearsome masks, had held out longer than most; but in the end, they too had been consumed in great numbers. He would have to be truly desperate to attempt anything at all; but he knew that one day he would have to, whichever way he chose to go about it. That burden was his to bear, and he would find no peace until he had retaken Erebor, or perished in the attempt.

Helmwyn saw the frown on Thorin’s brow and the cold fire in his eyes, and feared she had angered him. “Forgive me, my lord,” said she quickly; it was not for me to speak -”

But Thorin put his hand on hers, as he had done two nights before; only now she trembled at the touch. He looked gravely into her eyes.

“Nay, my lady,” said he. “You need never apologise to me; for you have spoken to me as a true friend would. You did not tell me what I wished to hear, but what you thought was right; and for that I thank you. But I believe there is wisdom in your words. I will think on them, and remember them when the time comes.” And with that, he released her hand, and gave a bitter smile. “Though of course wit and stealth are not qualities for which we Dwarves are renowned!”

And Helmwyn made herself smile back; but she could think only of his hand, and of his voice, and of his eyes, pale and fierce against his sweat-burnished skin. They sat so close that she could have leant over and kissed the frown from his brow. She did no such thing of course. But Thorin bade her good-night, and said he had much to think on; and her eyes followed him as he walked away down the hall.

At the table, Balin rolled his eyes at Dwalin, but said nothing.

***

Thorin walked past he great woven tapestries that hung in the hall; and it was dim, but he glimpsed rich colours in the gloom. Suddenly he stopped, for something had caught his eye, and he turned back to look closer. One tapestry showed a great serpent coiled around a warrior, and spewing flame; but the warrior was fighting valiantly, and behind him there was a golden hoard. Frám, Scatha’s Bane, thought Thorin, and glared at the woven image, and stalked away; and though the tapestry Worm’s scales were green, he thought more of Smaug than of Scatha.

He washed off the day’s grime, and went to bed, only to find that he could not sleep. He lay in the dark and mulled over the problem of the Mountain once more, and once more tried hatching various plans to bring the dragon down. The lady’s words had brought some variety to his imagined schemes, but these all seemed equally hopeless. Perhaps there would still be some survivors from the Mountain who remembered any drains or passages that may run under the treasure-chamber; although knowing Thrór, Thorin could well imagine that he would have had any such passages sealed, for fear of thieves. Still, he would make enquiries when he was back in Ered Luin.

It was a pity the lady could tell him nothing about the life-span of dragons. Thorin was willing to wait many years for his revenge; and in the meanwhile his people would increase again, and grow strong. But he could not wait forever; and he wondered what difference a century or two would make to Smaug. Was he not very ancient already? The Elves would know; but Thorin was damned if he was going to turn to the Elves for help.

He reflected that he should have thanked the lady better; for after all, she cared for the fate of his people, and she had really meant to help. He had seen it in her eyes. Her words had been wise, and thought-provoking; but they had troubled him, and he hoped he had not been curt with her. He thought she would understand though, for indeed he felt she understood him better than most. In any case, he was going to make up for it. The sword was going to be splendid, and it would be a handsome token of his esteem.

Thorin rolled over and sighed. At last he fell at last into an uneasy sleep, and dreamt that a great serpent was choking him in his coils.

***

While the lord Thorin slept and dreamt of dragons, Helmwyn lay awake and thought of the lord Thorin.

How had she not seen this coming? To be sure, she had thought the lord Thorin handsome, and noble, and powerful; but after all, she had grown up among the fine, strong warriors of the Mark, and was used to being among men, and they held no especial fascination for her. She could deal with them; and she had thought that she could deal with the lord Thorin, too. She had been unwary, unguarded, careless; and now she found that she was ensnared, though no snare had been laid.

Helmwyn cursed herself for her foolishness.

Now her heart ached with longing for the lord Thorin, and the very thought of him made her blush. No man of the Mark had ever had that effect on her; not even her husband. Aye, she had wanted him, but she had never let that get the better of her, just as she had taken his death in her stride. But now Helmwyn felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, and fear of the unknown gripped her heart. She was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Thus probably foreshadowing many of today’s fangirls.
> 
> (2) “Last of all the eastern force to stand firm were the Dwarves of Belegost, and thus they won renown. For the Naugrim withstood fire more hardily than either Elves or Men, and it was their custom moreover to wear great masks in battle hideous to look upon; and those stood them in good stead against the dragons. And but for them Glaurung and his brood would have withered all that was left of the Noldor. But the Naugrim made a circle about him when he assailed them, and even his mighty armour was not full proof against the blows of their great axes; and when in his rage Glaurung turned and struck down Azaghâl, Lord of Belegost, and crawled over him, with his last stroke Azaghâl drove a knife into his belly, and so wounded him that he fled the field, and the beasts of Angband in dismay followed after him.Then the Dwarves raised up the body of Azaghâl and bore it away; and with slow steps they walked behind singing a dirge in deep voices, as it were a funeral pomp in their country, and gave no heed more to their foes; and none dared to stay them.” – The Silmarillion
> 
> (3) “But ere the middle night the dragon roused, and with a great noise and blast cast his forward part across the chasm, and began to draw his bulk after. […] Then Turambar summoned all his will and courage and climbed the cliff alone, and came beneath the dragon. Then he drew Gurthang, and with all the might of his arm, and of his hate, he thrust it into the soft underbelly of the Worm, even up to the hilts. But when Glaurung felt his death-pang, he screamed, and in his dreadful throe he heaved up his bulk and hurled himself across the chasm, and there lay lashing and coiling in his agony. And he set all in a blaze about him, and beat all to ruin, until at last his fire died, and he lay still.” – The Silmarillion


	24. Chapter 23

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 23**

 

Balin wandered into the forge for want of anything better to do. He had tried approaching King Brytta about the terms of their employment, but the King had merely replied: “Of course, my dear fellow, of course! But ask my daughter, why don’t you; she’s much better at numbers than I am;” so he was back where he started. He was beginning to feel restless, and fretted about Thorin now on top of everything else. And since he was tired of watching Dwalin drill soldiers all day, he decided he might as well drop in on Thorin, and maybe try to gauge his state of mind.

Thorin was pleased to see him. “Ah, Balin! Just the fellow I needed,” he beamed. Balin had noticed that Thorin was cheerful these days, and found that rather alarming. “Here, look,” said Thorin, quite oblivious to his friend’s morose expression, “I’ve made some designs for the hilt and pommel. What do you think?”

Balin peered at the proffered parchment, and eyed it professionally. He poked his finger at a pair of quadrupeds that appeared to be struggling through a thicket of tendrils. “Are those supposed to be horses?”

Thorin gave him a look. “Obviously. Why, what’s wrong with them?”

“They look more like dragons to me.”

“Look, they’ve got four legs, and quite frankly with that amount of scrollwork around them, I think the difference is purely academic,” said Thorin petulantly. Dwarves didn’t usually make animal designs, but he had wanted to attempt something in the style of the Mark. The result was a little angular, to be sure, but he had been rather pleased with it.

“Suit yourself. I was just saying,” said Balin airily; but Thorin was peeved. Balin gave in. “All right, all right, they’re very nice, whatever they are. I suppose you’d like a hand with the lost wax?”

“How kind of you to make yourself useful, Balin” said Thorin. He was frowning, but he did welcome Balin’s help; for Balin was a trained jeweller, and was good at all the minute, fiddly detail that he himself seldom bothered with.

“Fine,” said Balin, throwing up his hands. “Come on lads, let Uncle Balin through. Where’s that lump of wax?”

Weyland and Njarl were supposed to be working on the lady’s armour; but since they were chasing and engraving helm and buckles, they took an interest in what the Dwarves were doing. They sent Hrolf to enlist the help of the goldsmith and the saddler, and they came eagerly when they heard that a sword was being especially made for the lady Helmwyn.

The forge became crowded, but it was merry work; and all together, they were busy as bees, casting bronze and chasing belt and scabbard mounts, engraving hilt and pommel, and inlaying them with gold and silver wire. Balin shook his head a little, and hoped he had succeeded in making the quadrupeds look a little more identifiably like horses; or else Thorin would never hear the end of it.

***

King Brytta sat with his daughter, and the steward Osric hovered awkwardly near them. Helmwyn had brought petitions by villagers from the Westfold, begging the King for land where they might resettle. The King was generous – too generous; and Helmwyn was trying all she could to make him see sense.

“If folk wish to settle further east, by all means, let them,” said the King. “I daresay there is enough land for everyone”

Helmwyn sighed. They must have had this same conversation a thousand times. “Father, I’ve told you before. The Westfold is rich arable land. It is the granary of the Mark. We cannot simply allow people to abandon it.”

“Would you force them to remain in an Orc-infested land?” asked the King. “Besides, there is plenty of space in the Wold.”

“The Eastfold alone cannot feed all of the Mark,” explained Helmwyn with as much patience as she could muster; “and the Wold is suitable as pasture, but not for crops. It is too marshy; but there at least the horses are safe. In any case, once the Orcs have bled the Westfold dry, they will turn eastwards. Flight is not a solution.”

The King was growing angry. “But then what would you have me do? Should I deny these people who beg me for help? Shall I tell them that they must stay and face this peril?”

“Aye,” said Helmwyn; “or we might as will give up the Mark now, and go back north, whence Eorl came.” Helmwyn hated herself for being so caustic, and spoke in a softer voice. “But Father, they shall not face peril unaided.”

“Daughter. You know this as well as I do. Aye, we can fight the Orcs in the plains; but we cannot be everywhere at once. There _will_ be raids, and burnt homesteads, and slain villagers, however many Riders patrol the Westfold. How could I ask people to stay, knowing this?”

“They must gather; and fortify their homesteads. I know that folk are loath to do it; but this we have learned. Villages with fences, watchtowers, and beacons can defend themselves. Besides,” she added flatly, “a large supply of cheap timber has unexpectedly become available. Is it not so, Osric?”

She looked pointedly at the steward, who anxiously proceeded to mutter facts and figures to the bemused King.

Helmwyn loved her father dearly, for he was great-hearted and generous; and she hated having to be the cold voice of reason. After all, she shared his concern, and his desire to save all; but she also knew that the Westfold must be dwelt in, and farmed, if the people were to eat. There was no easy solution to this; but the King tended to lose sight of these details, and she sometimes found his stubborn generosity trying. They would argue, though they both had the interests of the Mark at heart. And the King would sulk, though he would eventually heed his daughter’s counsel; but it pained her every time.

Osric droned on about the transport of timber out onto the plains, and Helmwyn thought about the Hornburg. It would be made fast, she knew, and the stores held there would at least avert a famine. But thinking of the Hornburg, she also thought of the lord Thorin, and of the fact that he would leave when the works were completed. Helmwyn knew that he loved her not; and had somehow made her peace with that. But she could not now endure he prospect of facing the coming months of raids and struggles without him; and her heart was filled with despair.

“Daughter, is this true?” said the King.

Helmwyn was startled. “Is what true?”

“That Wulfhere has made us a very generous offer indeed?”

“Aye, I suppose it is.” She found she had a lump in her throat. “Forgive me if I was distracted, Father; I have been sleeping badly.”

King Brytta dismissed Osric, and sat mulling over the problem. His daughter always had the better arguments; but his heart rebelled, for he could not bear to see his people in need.

Helmwyn perceived his struggle, but this time she reached over and took his hand. “Father,” she said. “You must think me very cold-hearted. But my heart bleeds for the Westfold, just as yours does; only my concern shows itself as bad temper. Forgive me.”

The King smiled. “I know, child. You’ve always been a grumpy little thing, haven’t you? Come here,” said he, and pulled his daughter into a bear hug. But then he told her in earnest: “I am sorry you have to live through times such as these. I so wish I could achieve peace - for you, and for all of the Mark.” He sighed. “But I am beginning to doubt whether I shall see peace again in my lifetime.”

“Do not speak like this, Father, I beg you. Not you!” said Helmwyn. “We may not be able to defeat them – yet. But they shall not defeat us!”

“My brave girl,” said the King, and kissed his daughter’s brow; though in that moment Helmwyn was feeling anything but brave.

***

Mid-afternoon, the smiths decided that they would go to the vaults and try to find suitable gems for the sword and scabbard. They found Osric there, and he blanched when he saw the assorted craftsmen outside the door; for the lady had threatened him with very specific unpleasantness if he so much as breathed a hint about the hoard to any of the Dwarves, except the lord Thorin. But since he could not tell them apart, he thought he would be safest not mentioning anything to any of them, and even avoiding them as far as was possible. And now there were two in the doorway, backed by several formidable-looking craftsmen. Osric swallowed.

“Good afternoon, Master Osric!” said Harald the goldsmith pleasantly. “We were wondering if we could have a look at that cache of gems.”

Osric panicked. He was almost certain that some at least of the rough gems kept here had come with the hoard, but he certainly could not tell which. A stone was a stone, as far as he was concerned. But the Dwarves might be able to tell.

“I-… I don’t know” he stalled, “you see, I’ve been trying to put some order in here, now might not be a good time-”

“Oh, don’t mind us, we’ll be gone in no time” said Weyland, and swept past the poor steward into the vault. Much of the treasure had already been ordered and put away in chests, but Osric flailed around trying to distract their attention away from what was still on show. Mercifully, Thorin had the presence of mind to put his arms firmly around Balin’s shoulders and to manoeuvre him towards the small table where Osric stood quaking.

“So…what is it you are looking for, exactly?” stammered the steward.

“Gems. For a sword hilt and scabbard” explained Weyland patiently.

“Preferably blue,” added Thorin.

“Hard. Something that won’t crack or splinter” contributed Balin, who wondered slightly at Thorin’s sudden demonstration of brotherly feeling.

“W-well, let me see what we have” said Osric, and picked out a few specimens that he laid out on a velvet cloth.

Balin pulled out a jeweller’s eyeglass and examined several stones. “Well, fancy that,” he exclaimed all of a sudden; “I thought these were only found in the Grey Mountains, in the far north!”

“Yes. How extraordinary. It seems they also have them here,” said Thorin, and looked pointedly at Osric.

“What do you think, lads?” asked Balin, oblivious to all this. “These are pretty, though they’re not as hard as I’d wish” he said, and showed the unremarkable bluish-grey stones to the others.

The craftsmen of the Mark were not familiar with these stones, but the two Dwarves were; and they knew that once the stones were cut and polished, they would have a green fire in them, like the skies in the northlands. Besides, Thorin thought it pleasant that the lady should wear jewels from Scatha’s hoard on the pommel of her sword.

“I’m happy with these if you are,” he said.

“Aren’t you afraid they might crack?” wondered Balin.

Thorin shrugged. “Better cracked jewels than a shattered blade, if you ask me. Besides, I think the lady would like them.” The others concurred with that. Blue-grey-green stones were bound to please her, but she was unlikely to care much if they got chipped.

“These it is, then!” said Harald enthusiastically.

Osric was leafing ineffectually through his ledgers.

“Is this for an official commission?” he asked.

“Nay, this is officious. You can dock these stones off my salary,” grinned Thorin. Balin sighed.

***

When they returned to the forge, Egil the saddler had assembled a scabbard of linden-wood for the sword, lined it with fleece, and bound it in the same blue leather as was embossed on the lady’s armour. All agreed that the gems they had chosen would go well with this; and Balin set about cutting the stones to the right dimensions. Njarl, Weyland and Harald worked on the detailing and gilding of the scabbard and belt mounts; Egil carved the wooden grip; and Thorin was intent on minute details of the hilt and pommel.

He had acid-etched the blade earlier, and polished it; and the pattern on it was so beautiful that he had not the heart to engrave runes upon it. So instead he wrote them on the hilt, and surrounded them with coils of gold and silver wire. In truth, he knew not what Balin had against ~~his drag-~~ his horses; they looked reasonably horse-like to him. A little grim, to be sure, but that was appropriate for a sword.

They had to stop at sundown, for there was now not enough light for them to work by; and so they resolved to finish and assemble everything the next morning. The craftsmen gathered to look at the unfinished sword as it lay on the bench, and they were proud of their work.

“Well,” said Weyland, “she’s steely, and golden, and clad in blue leather – I daresay the lady will like her!” and at that they all laughed, and went to look for a cask of ale to share. But as Balin made to cover the sword before putting it away, his eyes fell on the runes that Thorin had engraved upon the hilt; and he sighed, and shook his head sadly, and went after them.


	25. Chapter 24

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 24**

Helmwyn woke muzzily after yet another dreadful night. She had lain awake again, her mind aflame, tossing and turning until the small hours, before falling at last into a fitful, unquiet sleep. Now her head throbbed, she was exhausted, and she decided she really could not go on like this.

For three days she had ached and pined, and thought about nothing but the lord Thorin. For three days she had barely eaten, and barely slept; and this was beginning to play havoc with her digestion. For three days she had been miserable and bad-tempered, and had taken it all out on poor Osric, and on her dear father. For three days she had skulked around Meduseld, dreading to meet the lord Thorin, lest she blush and betray her feelings and make an utter fool of herself. Thankfully he had been busy in the forge for most of that time. But she could not go on avoiding him, and neither did she wish to do so.

She decided that enough was enough; this self-indulgent behaviour was unworthy of her, and of him. And so she resolved to pull herself together, and be brave, and cheerful, and busy, for his sake as well as for hers, and for the Mark’s. She rose, and threw cold water onto her face, and dressed in riding-clothes; and she went down to the forge to see how her armour was coming along. And if the lord Thorin was there, so be it. She would be strong. Surely a shieldmaiden of the house of Eorl could will herself to retain her composure.

***

The forge was more crowded than ever, for now Balin had arrived with his brother in tow. Dwalin was beginning to feel a little lonely and bored, and so the craftsmen had welcomed him in. There was nothing he could usefully do, but they allowed him to stay, provided he didn’t touch anything; and now he stood in a corner, trying to take up as little space as possible – which was a challenge in itself.

“So, er…what about the lady Ortrud?” he asked Njarl casually. “You must have made things for her.”

“Aye, I did make bits and pieces for her”, answered the old smith; “though never a full suit of armour. Oh, but she was a tough one, young lady Ortrud was. You’ve met her. Tough, she was. Wonderful smile, too.”

Thorin was about to start assembling the pommel when Hrolf ran into the forge. “Quick,” he said breathlessly, “put everything away! The lady is coming!”

The craftsmen stopped what they were doing and frantically gathered up the various elements of the sword, and concealed everything as best they could. Weyland threw his leather apron over everything, and Dwalin went and stood in front of it for good measure. When the lady put her head through the door, they were all industriously embossing leather or burnishing bits of armour.

“Good morrow, Masters!” said she. “Are you making good progress? Oh, I see you got yourself some help. Good morrow, all of you.”

“Egil came to help us with the leather, and Harald with the gilding,” said Weyland. “And our dwarven friends were kind enough to…er…share some of their expertise. We’re just putting the finishing touches here, but the armour is ready to be tried on if you’re willing.”

“Aye, I would do so gladly” said she, and once again took off her leather coat and put on the quilted gambeson. She tied on the heavy skirt of scales, for she had wished to be able to put on as much of her armour as possible unaided. It was split front and back for riding, and Weyland had tried to reduce its weight by layering leather and bronze scales. “Well, this should keep me close to the ground,” quipped the lady; “do you approve, Master Dwalin?”

But Weyland and Njarl helped her into the breastplate, and fastened the buckles, and tied on her vambraces and her greaves; and a gravity had come over them. And the lady joked no more, for she too sensed the solemnity of the moment. When they were done, she took up one of the plain swords that were in the forge, and stepped outside; and she swung the sword for a while, to test the fit and flexibility of the armour, and to get used to its weight.

Whether or not it were indeed lighter than her wretched hauberk, the weight was much better distributed, and did not press down upon her shoulders so. She could move freely; and she felt grounded, but unencumbered. She smiled. “Masters, you have outdone yourselves,” she told the smiths. “It is wonderful.”

Thorin could tell that Njarl and Weyland were moved, and the others too; for the lady looked resplendent. The bronze caught the morning sun, and the golden flower shone brightly on her breast. But as they watched her practice her stances, lithe and intent, they understood that she meant to fight in earnest. And though she was a shieldmaiden of the house of Eorl, and had ridden out before, it was suddenly brought home to them that she might be wounded, or killed; and it grieved them, for they had known her since she was a little girl, and they were fond of her.

But if she sensed their concern, she pretended not to notice; but she asked Weyland about her helm, and said she would try that on too, as she feared it might limit her peripheral vision. “I’m afraid that is not yet quite ready, my lady, for there is a lot of fiddly detailing on that; but we should have it assembled by the end of today.”

She nodded, and spoke to all of them: “I know I have pressed you hard for this, my friends, but I thank you, with all my heart, for the work you have put into this.”

“It’s been an honour, my lady,” answered Weyland. “May it keep you safe, and may you wear it to good fortune!”

Helmwyn grasped the great smith’s arm in gratitude and in friendship, and then went to each of the others in turn to thank him. Dwalin clapped her on the shoulder, and she smiled at Balin; but when she came to the lord Thorin, who stood a little apart from the others, she looked into his eyes, and nodded to him. He was watching her form under his black brows; and he met her gaze, and nodded back.

***

“It’s a pity the sword wasn’t finished,” said Njarl once the lady had gone; “you could’ve given it to her at the same time.”

“I think it is just as well,” answered Thorin; “that armour is magnificent, and deserved her full attention. Besides, I got the impression that it was a solemn moment for you, too.”

“Aye, that it was,” said the old smith wistfully. “Well, it always is, I suppose, making a suit of armour for someone. But for a young lass like that…” He shook his head. “It’s a sad thing.”

Thorin resumed his work on the pommel, and thought that these people had a decidedly ambivalent attitude to this whole shieldmaiden business.

Balin set the jewels into the hilt; and Thorin hammered the crossguard, grip and pommel into place; and Egil wrapped the grip in blue leather. They affixed the gilt bronze mounts to the sword-belt and scabbard while Njarl, Weyland and Harald resumed their work of the lady’s helm. When all was done, they looked long at the finished sword and helm, as they had the day before; but now they felt subdued, and spoke in quiet voices.

“So when are you going to give her the sword?” asked Weyland.

“I trust I shall find a suitable occasion,” answered Thorin. “I do not wish to steal your thunder; but I guess she will need the sword soon enough.”

They nodded at that, and said their farewells, for they did not feel like drinking that night.

Even Balin felt a little gloomy. “These Rohirrim are strange folk,” he told his brother. “First they teach their young lasses how to swing a sword, and then they get upset when they go out and fight.”

Dwalin shrugged philosophically. “I don’t know. I guess we’re the same with our kids. Take Frerin. How old was he now? Not even fifty. But do you think old Thráin would have told him to stay at home? Nope. The lad was in the thick of it. They both were. And not because anybody made them; but because it was the only thing to do.”

Balin nodded. Ah yes, the line of Durin and their obdurate sense of duty. He glanced at Thorin.

Weyland had wrapped the sword in a cloth, and gave it to Thorin. “Goodbye, my friend,” said the great red-haired smith. “Look after her for me.” And Thorin clasped Weyland’s mighty arm, and walked away from the forge; but he was not sure whether he had meant the sword, or the lady.


	26. Chapter 25

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 25**

A chill mist still hung about Edoras when Helmwyn and the Dwarves set out for the Westfold again; but the golden haze vanished soon enough under the glad sun, and they swept through the green plains with the wind in their hair, feeling as though the world were still young. The lady’s armour had been safely wrapped and padded, and was now being carried by a pack-horse. But Thorin thought of the sword, concealed in a blanket and strapped to his saddle; and he smiled to himself.

***

As soon as they arrived in Lindburg, they knew that something was amiss. There seemed to be an agitation about the place, and the townspeople were milling around, and hurrying back and forth towards the hall. They spurred their mounts past the second gate, and came to the green before the hall; and they saw that tents had been put up, and that unknown folk stood on the green, mostly women and children. Helmwyn’s heart sank, for she could guess well enough what had happened.

“Thurstan!” she called to one of the soldiers. “Whence came these people? Tell me all.”

“They came from Maldon, my lady,” answered the man. “Orcs raided it two nights since. The lord Telramund left at once, but he was too late to save the village. We could see the blaze form here.”

Helmwyn left her horse to a stable-hand and hastened towards the hall, looking for the lady Ortrud. She found her inside, giving instructions that every spare blanket in Lindburg should be brought to the green. She had been through this before, and knew what to do; and she handled the emergency with her usual capable and efficient manner.

“My aunt!” called Helmwyn, striding into the hall with the Dwarves.

“Helmwyn,” said Ortrud, and hugged her niece. “You have heard?”

“Aye. Maldon, this time.”

“We do not know whether the Orcs torched the place, or whether the blaze was set off accidentally,” said Ortrud; “but most of the village is soot and ashes now. Telramund sent the people hither, and has gone in pursuit of the Orcs.”

“How many are there?”

“Around four score so far, and more are coming.”

“There will be yet more ere the summer is over,” said Helmwyn. There always were. They both knew this. And between the two women there hung the unspoken question: ‘How are we going to feed them?’

“Telramund might bring back a few more,” said Ortrud. “Some of the women say that their children are missing. They swear they saw the Orcs carry them off; though the children may simply have become lost in the confusion.”

Helmwyn frowned. “I know we have heard such tales before, but I find this strange, and unlikely. Why should the Orcs take prisoners when they can barely feed themselves?”

But Thorin spoke: “The Orcs do not take prisoners, ladies; nor do they trade hostages, or keep slaves.”

“That is what I thought,” said Helmwyn.

“You misunderstand me, my lady.”

“Then what mean you?”

“Orcs eat manflesh, lady. Especially children, for they are easier to carry than sheep or goats.” Thorin looked upon Helmwyn’s face, and saw that she was aghast. “Did you not know?”

But Helmwyn had gone pale. She looked around to make sure that no-one, besides Ortrud and the Dwarves, had heard this. “On no account must such a rumour be allowed to spread,” said she hoarsely. “The people _cannot_ know this!” And with that she turned away from them, and went to sit in her dim corner with her cloak wrapped about her shoulders and a haunted look in her eyes.

***

Helmwyn felt sick with guilt. She thought of her conversation with the King two days before. How reasonable she had been, how cool and statesmanlike, in the face of her father’s compassion! And now this. Would she have the courage to tell these people that they must one day go back to their ravaged homes, and rebuild them, and ready themselves for the next attack? Could she look them in the eye, and tell them that Riders were patrolling the Westfold tirelessly, and that everything was being done to protect them, knowing what she did? This was not merely about horses, or cattle, or grain. Not any more.

She wondered whether Telramund knew, and whether her father knew; and if they did, why they had not told her. For the same reason you won’t tell the people, she thought. Because they would lose what hope and courage they still possessed. Helmwyn considered the vast and hopeless struggle that lay ahead, and wanted to scream.

***

“The lass should eat something,” said Dwalin a little later as they sat at supper; though in truth they were all feeling rather subdued. Trestle-tables had been set up, and the hall was now thronged with people; but the refugees’ faces were drawn, and several children were crying, and this was not a merry evening.

“My niece is having one of her black moods,” answered Ortrud. “It will pass; but it is best not to disturb her.”

Thorin glanced over his shoulder to the corner where Helmwyn sat in deep despondency. She had not stirred or spoken, but sat there huddled in her cloak, with her legs stretched out, staring unseeing before her.

“Does this happen often?” he asked.

“Often enough,” said Ortrud. “I daresay the circumstances warrant it.” Whilst Ortrud had been shocked by Thorin’s news, it had not surprised her unduly, and she appeared to be taking it in her stride; but she would say no more on the matter, lest she be overheard by the refugees.

Thorin rose. “I will go and talk to her,” he said.

“I wouldn’t so that,” said Balin. “She’ll bite your head off.”

“I shall have to risk it,” said Thorin, filling a cup of mead; and he walked over to Helmwyn.

“Here,” he said. “I thought you could do with a drink.”

Helmwyn looked up from her boots. “Thank you, my lord,” said she wanly, and took the proffered cup.

Thorin gave her a searching look. “I am sorry that I have upset you,” he said.

“Do not be,” she replied; “for I would rather know the truth.” Helmwyn’s head was aching, and she rubbed her temples.

Thorin stood watching her, unsure whether to stay, or to leave her alone.

“Would you be left to brood, lady Helmwyn?” he asked. “Or would you not rather talk, and share your burden?”

Helmwyn heard the kindness in Thorin’s voice, and gave him a thin smile. “You seem to do a lot of brooding yourself, my lord,” she said; “and yet you would not let me indulge in it?”

“It seldom leads to new insights,” said Thorin, and smiled back. “Trust me on this, I should know.”

“So may one counsel another,” said Helmwyn; and she moved up the bench to make room for Thorin. She had not the strength to flee from him tonight; on the contrary, his presence comforted her, so solid did he seem, and so gentle. Thorin sat down beside her, and he did not press her with questions, but waited until she were ready to talk. Helmwyn drank from the mead, and sighed.

“I feel utterly powerless, my lord,” said she at last. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“You have already done much.”

“But that is not enough. Will it ever be enough, I wonder?”

Thorin remembered his own war against the Orcs, which was fought over many years, and mostly in dark caverns beneath the Misty Mountains. He honestly did not think that the Rohirrim could permanently defeat the Orcs merely by hunting them on the plains; but he reasoned that she would not want to hear this now, and held his tongue.

“There is nothing for it but to ride out, again and again,” Helmwyn went on. “But I cannot help hatching these plans, my lord. Long-term plans, as though we could hope to hold the Westfold for much longer. Mending the Hornburg was one such scheme.”

“I am biased in this matter, of course,” Thorin said; “but I would say that this scheme was a good one.”

“Aye. To make the Hornburg into the best-defended granary and larder in the Mark. And now it seems we are to lock up the children there, too, with the smoked meats and the sacks of flour. The Orcs will have to prey on our old folk instead.” She turned to him and lowered her voice, lest she be overheard. “Is that what I should tell the people? That anyone too weak to fight, or too slow to run, will be eaten?” Helmwyn grimaced. “On the other hand, that might solve our famine problem. Fewer mouths to feed.”

Thorin was pained to hear her speak with such bitterness, for he had only ever known her to be brave, and spirited, and resolute. “Do not speak such words of despair, lady, I beg you,” he said; “not you. You must kindle courage in the hearts of your people, as you have ever done!”

Helmwyn gazed at Thorin with sad eyes. “Have no fear, my lord,” she said; “I shall put on a brave face, for their sake. As I have ever done.”

Thorin knew not what to say to her. To be sure, he too had known doubt and despair during his years of exile. But always he had conquered them, or at least given a good enough show of conquering them; and he had pressed on. He thought of the Mountain, and wondered whether he nurtured any actual hope of reclaiming it. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he did not; but that would not keep him from attempting the deed, sooner or later. After all, no other race could compete with Dwarves in terms of sheer bloody-mindedness.

He decided that since fate had brought him and his companions to the Mark, he might as well try to instil some dwarven fighting-spirit in the lady. He would not have thought she would ever have need of this, but she certainly seemed to need it now.

“Your people are not yet beaten, lady,” he told her; “so let us hatch schemes, you and I. I have done my share of that, too.”

“Can you help me hatch a scheme to feed these people, and those that are likely to come after?” Helmwyn asked him. “It is not yet harvest-time, and I do not know if our stores will suffice until then.”

Dwarven sense for commerce might be of help, too. Thorin decided to talk her through this sensibly. “Is there anyone from whom you might buy grain?” he asked.

“Aye,” answered she; “from Gondor.”

“And what is your trade with Gondor?”

“Chiefly horses and cloth,” said Helmwyn, thinking aloud. “But there are only so many horses that Gondor can buy; and there is only so much cloth that we can produ-”

She broke off, and Thorin saw her face change as a new thought formed in her mind. The frown faded from her brow, and she sat up, and looked at Thorin; and he saw that the spark that had gone out was now rekindled.

“Thank you, my lord!” she cried.

“Why, what did I say?”

Helmwyn got up quickly, and walked over to the table; and she spoke a few words with Snorri, and all but dragged him out of the hall.

“What did you say to her?” asked Dwalin, as Thorin wandered back to the table.

“Hardly anything,” answered Thorin, slightly bemused. “What was that all about?”

Dwalin shrugged. “Hm? Dunno.”

“She said something to Snorri about improving the yield of their looms,” said Balin.

Thorin considered this, and laughed.

“What’s so funny about that?” Balin asked.

“I think we need not worry about the lady anymore; she is quite herself again,” said Thorin with a broad smile.

***

By the next morning, Snorri had come up with plans for new, improved weaving-looms, and had even suggested a wonder of ingenuity that had been hitherto unknown in the Mark: the spinning-wheel.

The Rohirrim made surprisingly fine cloth, considering the primitive looms they used. Their wool and flax were of excellent quality; but a bale of cloth required many hours of labour to weave, not to mention the spinning. As they crossed the dew-wet green, Helmwyn excitedly explained to her aunt how Snorri’s devices would allow them to make better-quality cloth faster, and with less labour; and they would be able to sell it at a higher price in Gondor, and thus could they buy grain, and ease the strain on the estate’s resources.

Ortrud smiled at her niece’s enthusiasm; and soon a small crowd of craftsmen, curious townspeople and refugees had assembled in the outbuilding where the weaving-looms stood, and studied Snorri’s plans with interest, but also with puzzlement. Snorri was doing his best to explain his designs, but only seemed to be adding to the confusion; and so Balin sighed, and stepped in, trying to put Snorri’s jargon in simpler terms.

Thorin watched with amusement, then stepped closer to Helmwyn. “My lady,” he told her, “I suppose you will be staying here today, to oversee this; but I shall go to Helm’s Deep, for I have been gone for several days, and ought to see for myself how the lads are getting on. But I think I shall bring Regin back with me tonight.”

“Aye, that would be good,” answered she; “for he is skilled with mechanisms, and is used to interpreting Snorri’s drawings! But we have enough joiners, woodcarvers and wheelwrights here to make a start. Can you spare Snorri for today?”

“Aye, I daresay I can. You might need Balin, too,” said Thorin, and Helmwyn smiled. He was pleased to see that the lady was once again thinking up long-term solutions to the troubles that beset the Mark.

“I have also asked Dwalin to stay,” she said. “We discussed…activities to keep those children busy, and he came up with a few ideas.” Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Children!” Helmwyn called to the youngsters that were milling around in the barn. “I suggest you all go out into the yard. Master Dwalin has devised some games for you!” The children looked at each other, and at their mothers. They had already spotted Dwalin, for indeed he was hard to miss; and they were both wary and curious of him. The mothers looked worried. “Ladies, you may join in, if you will,” said Helmwyn, and led the way out onto the green.

Dwalin had prepared a sheaf of sticks of various lengths, and grinned as the children began to gather around him – at a safe distance.

“Well, hello, boys and girls!” he said. “Today, I thought I’d teach you all the basics of fighting with a staff. Now, the great thing about a quarterstaff is, it’s cheap, it’s easy to make, and it’s terribly effective. And it’s also a lot of fun! Here. Everyone take a stick.”

The children gingerly drew closer, and Dwalin proceeded to hand out sticks according to size. Their mothers eyed Dwalin cautiously, but they did not protest, being women of the Mark; and some of them even went to pick up a stick of their own.

Soon Dwalin had talked them through a few basic moves, and had them practising in pairs. Ortrud had left the craftsmen to get on with what they were doing, and joined them on the green; and she walked among the children, correcting their stances, encouraging them, and giving them good advice. “Remember, child,” she told one girl: “the aim is not to hit your opponent’s stick, but your opponent himself.” There would be bruises and broken teeth ere long, she knew; but there was no point in teaching them to fight, if not whole-heartedly.

Besides being a fine weapons-master, Dwalin was also worryingly good with children; and so was Ortrud. Helmwyn however was not; and she stood by watching on the edge of the green, and Thorin stood with her. There was a grim determination in the lady’s eyes that Thorin had not seen before.

“I see you are not giving up the Westfold for lost after all, my lady; for that is a long-term scheme if ever I saw one,” said he, and gestured towards the training-grounds.

“Such is the world we live in, that we must teach children to fight.”

“It was ever thus. Better to teach them now; they shall not be unprepared when the time comes.”

“Some of them will die,” said she.

“Aye. But not all of them.”

Helmwyn turned to look at Thorin.

“I wanted to thank you, my lord.”

“For what?”

“For everything that you have told me. I have thought much upon it; and I take courage from the undaunted strength of your people. You have shown that the Orcs can be defeated. But you have also brought home to me what it means to lose the land of one’s fathers.” She turned her gaze back on the children. “Your people were driven form their home by a terrible foe, my lord. But we in the Mark are fortunate enough to have a home still; and it is ours to defend while we may. I _will not_ give up this fair land of ours unfought.”

Hearing these words, Thorin felt inexplicably proud of the lady; and he resolved to give her the sword that very same day. There was no time for that now though; and so he took his leave, and walked towards the stables, leaving Helmwyn to watch the children of the Mark at play.


	27. Chapter 26

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 26**

Thorin rode back to Lindburg early that day, for Hogni and Andvari seemed to be managing at Helm’s Deep, and he felt that there was nothing much for him to do there. But with him he brought Regin, to help with the construction of the new looms; and Regin was secretly delighted to return to the comfort of the great hall.

Thorin showed Regin to the weaving-shed, where he was welcomed with relief by the assembled woodworkers. Snorri was still there, and Balin also; and Thorin beckoned to him. He told Balin that he was going to give the lady the sword, and asked him whether he would like to join him, since he too had had a hand in the making of it. Balin thought that the whole thing was a terrible idea; but he said nothing, and followed Thorin reluctantly to the hall to retrieve the gift, which Thorin had concealed beneath his bed.

When they came out of the hall into the late afternoon sunlight, they found the children still training under Dwalin’s and Ortrud’s supervision. The children of the Mark were hardy; and the girls as well as the boys were intent, and did not complain, for they had been born in troubled times, and were already grown-up beyond their years. Helmwyn had paired up with her cousin, young Ortlind, to demonstrate fighting moves to the other children. Ortlind was a shy thing, and a little in awe of Helmwyn. But she was already showing promise, being her mother’s daughter; and in any case, she was the child with whom Helmwyn felt the least uncomfortable.

Thorin and Balin stood in the shade of the old linden tree, and watched, and waited; but Balin could sense that Thorin was as excited as a dwarfling, and he just hoped that the whole embarrassing scene would be over as quickly as possible. Eventually, Dwalin announced a short rest, and he sidled up to Ortrud, ostensibly to discuss technique. Helmwyn saw Thorin and Balin, and walked across the green to join them beneath the tree.

“How goes it with you?” she asked them, smiling; and she wiped her brow, grateful for the shade.

“All is well at Helm’s Deep, lady,” said Thorin; “and Regin is helping with the looms as we speak.”

“That is good,” she said, and leaned against the tree. “Dwalin and my aunt have done sterling work here with the new recruits. And my little cousin has surprised us all.” Helmwyn pointed towards Ortlind, who had taken no rest, but continued to practise on her own. “She is already leading through example; I believe she will make my aunt and uncle proud.”

“Lady Helmwyn,” said Thorin.

Something in his voice made her turn around; and she saw that he stood now with a faint smile on his lips, holding a distinctly sword-shaped bundle. She stood up straight and turned to face him, and her heart began to race.

“My lady,” he began, “when my companions and I arrived in the Mark, you offered us a gracious welcome, and extended your friendship to Durin’s folk. It is now my turn to give you a token of friendship in the name of my people.”

Balin cringed. After all, they had not come here on a visit of courtesy, but as paid contractors – or so he hoped. But Thorin unwrapped the dark cloth, and presented the lady with the sword. It was the most splendid weapon she had ever seen.

“Receive now this sword, Helmwyn, Brytta’s daughter, and bear it onto victory!” said the lord Thorin; and his voice was strong and commanding.

Helmwyn stared at him in disbelief. But she took the sword from him with trembling hands, and gazed at it; and she thought it strange, but very beautiful. She drew the sword a few inches, and saw that a pattern rippled down the blade, like eddies in a swift brook. She unsheathed it altogether, and swung it, and marvelled at its balance, and at how naturally it rested in her grasp.

“The blade is slender, and fair, and deadly, like the lady of the Eorlingas,” Thorin went on; “and like the lady of the Eorlingas, may it rejoice in the slaying of Orcs, and long protect the Riddermark! ‘Fearless’ I named it, for so too is the lady; and with this gift I honour her undaunted spirit.”

Balin thought this was ridiculous – to somehow link the lady’s sword with Thorin’s own sword Deathless, a proud heirloom of his house. He tried to console himself by reasoning that maybe Thorin simply had a limited imagination when it came to naming swords; but that was no great comfort.

Helmwyn sheathed the sword again; but a hush had fallen on the green, and she became uncomfortably aware that everybody present was now watching her - Ortrud and Dwalin and the refugees and all the folk of Lindburg. Thorin and Balin could see that she was deeply moved, and for a moment they thought that she struggled to retain her composure. But after all she was a king’s daughter, and a shieldmaiden; and she took a few deep breaths, and rallied magnificently.

“I thank you, Thorin Thráinsson!” said she in a loud, clear voice. “No gift could have been more pleasing to a daughter of Eorl!”

Helmwyn felt that rather more was required of her, and she rose to the occasion.

“Nor indeed could the gift be more timely!” said she; and she took a few steps out onto the green, and looked around her at the assembled folk.

“Eorlingas!” she called to them. “The hour is dark, and you are weary. But in this hour we have a choice before us. We may choose despair, and the outcome will be certain. Or we may choose hope. That way lies sacrifice, and hardship, aye; but that way too lies a future. We may wait cowering until they come for our land, or we may await them with a sword in hand. Which do you choose?”

“The sword!” cried Ortlind. And all the others, men and women and children, warriors and peasants, took up her cry: “The sword! The sword!”

“Eorlingas!” called Helmwyn. “This is my gift to you!” And she drew Fearless and thrust the blade skywards, and it shone bright in the sun. “And with this gift comes a promise. We may not know peace in our lifetime. Aye, and our children too may still have to fight. But their children” - and here she pointed at the grave-eyed refugee children in the yard - “shall be born into a land untroubled. And they shall marvel at our tales of this time, and doubt them as one doubts nursery-tales; for none of them shall ever have seen a living Orc in the Riddermark!”

A great roar rose from the assembled watchers, and they cheered and cried ‘Eorlingas!’; and those who had weapons shook them, or beat them against their shields. And as the crowd called, so the lady called with them: ‘Eorlingas!’. But soon another cry was heard from the people: ‘ _Unforht! Unforht!_ ’ they cried, as the lady held the glittering sword aloft. And Thorin looked upon her, and beheld her loveliness, and the fierce light that shone in her eyes; and he felt something tighten around his heart.

Helmwyn lowered the sword, and sheathed it, and girded herself with it so that all could see. And when the cheers began to subside, she turned around and walked back towards the linden tree.

“Well, my lord, how many axemen do you think that was worth?” she asked Thorin under her breath.

“Maybe fifty today, lady,” he said; “but by the time the tale has spread, I reckon perhaps another hundred.” He had tried to answer lightly, but found that he was not in a mood to jest.

Helmwyn stood near the lord Thorin, and spoke no more for a while, but waited until the watchers had scattered, and gone back to their affairs, and Balin too had gone away; and only then did she at last turn to look at him, and speak to him in earnest.

“My lord …,” she began, and faltered. “I can find no words to thank you as I should. Yet I believe you know me well enough by now to guess what this gift means to me. Indeed, you must know me, else you could not have made me such a blade.”

Thorin held her gaze, but did not answer, for his heart was troubled.

“Was it the making of this that put you in such glad spirits in Edoras?” she asked him.

“Aye, lady,” he answered, and found that his voice sounded a little hoarse; “it was glad in the making. For all those who took part in making it love you, and wish you well -” (he was about to add “and none more than I” but bit his tongue). “May it be a true and faithful friend to you.”

“I am moved and honoured by your gift,” said she. “I hope I shall prove worthy of it.”

Helmwyn hesitated, and gave him a formal bow, and walked away; but Thorin’s eyes followed her all the way to the hall.

***

What a queen she would make.

Thorin had toyed with the idea before, but now he thought about it in earnest. It had occurred to him just then, as he watched the lady speaking words of hope and defiance to her people. And he had nearly asked her, had very nearly blurted it out, then and there, in front of everyone. But then again, he reasoned, why should he not ask her? After all, she was a perfect match.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. The lady was a daughter of kings; she was brave and resolute; she was wise and gracious; she was a capable administrator. They got on well. And he thought highly of her. Very highly indeed.

Why waste time looking for a dwarven substitute, when he could simply ask her? In any case, Thorin doubted whether a better match could be found among his own race. _(1)_

Seen like this, the matter seemed straightforward enough. And yet Thorin was troubled. Why had he become so tongue-tied? Something had stopped him. Something like fear.

Thorin was in turmoil. He clearly wasn’t thinking straight. Why should he be afraid to ask her?

Perhaps it was because he knew that she loved the Mark, and would not leave it for the sake of any man, let alone the pauper prince of an exiled people. His heart sank.

He _would_ ask her. Perhaps a little later, though. Perhaps if the Mark were made safe from the Orcs, perhaps then she might agree. But he must ask her before he returned to the Blue Mountains, if only to make sure of her refusal.

Thorin stood alone under the linden tree, its boughs rustling gently in the breeze; and he looked about him at the hall, and the green, and the town, and the fair valley beyond. He thought of how glad this summer in the Mark had been, although he was only just beginning to understand why. And he thought that this summer would end; and his mood was darkened.

***

Balin strode across the green, looking like he was ready to tear his beard out.

“That went rather well,” said Dwalin.

“That was a disaster!” answered Balin, and pulled his brother to one side.

“Why?” asked Dwalin. “I thought that was a pretty good speech. Very rousing.”

“Nevermind the speech. He’s making a complete fool of himself! I mean, honestly: ‘Fearless’?”

Dwalin considered that. “S’a good name for a sword.”

“Not you, too! Anyway, just look at him!”

They both looked at Thorin across the lawn, and Dwalin saw that his bearing and his demeanour had changed. While a few minutes earlier he had been beaming with pride, now he stood there looking forlorn, and a little bewildered.

“Oh. Back to normal, eh?” said Dwalin. “Mind you, seeing him so cheerful of late, it was kind of _weird_.”

“That’s the point,” hissed Balin. “I think the trouble’s only just starting.”

Dwalin shrugged. “Ah well. Don’t you worry, brother; it’ll end soon enough,” said he philosophically.

Balin sighed. “Aye, hopefully you’re right, and this nonsense will end when we go back to the Blue Mountains.”

“Sooner than that, I’d say”.

“You mean when he realises she isn’t a Dwarf?”

“I meant when she goes and gets herself killed.”

Balin stared at his brother, aghast.

“Don’t look at me like that!” said Dwalin. “I like the lass. He’s the one giving her swords. He’s _encouraging_ her.”

They watched Thorin stride away gloomily, wearing his old-accustomed frown once more.

“You know him,” Dwalin went on. “Always needs something to be miserable about. Well, he’ll have plenty to be miserable about when something happens to her.”

But Balin had had enough of this. “Now, you listen to me, brother. You’re going to make damn sure nothing happens to the lass. You train her, you look after her. You watch her back.”

“I thought you wanted to get rid of her.”

“I said nothing of the kind!” exclaimed Balin.

Dwalin raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, all right, I did. But not like this!”

“Brother,” said Dwalin. “Calm down. What is it that you want, exactly?”

Balin sagged. “I don’t want him to do anything stupid. And I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Sometimes it can’t be helped,” said Dwalin. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

***

Helmwyn went to the chamber she shared with Ortlind. The girl had resumed training with the children outside, and the room was empty, which was just as well, for she needed to be alone for a moment. Helmwyn shut the door, and unbuckled the sword. She had not yet had a chance to look at it properly.

She examined the beautifully wrought scabbard-mounts, with their curious blue-green gems. She marvelled at the intricate scrollwork on the crossguard, and at the beasts entwined therein. It resembled the scrollwork of her people, but there was also something strange about it, something foreign and angular.

She drew the sword, and looked long at the pattern of ripples and coils that ran along the blade, between the bright steel edges. It looked like the knotwork patterns of the Mark, but also like the complex geometrical patterns that the Dwarves wore on their clothes.

It must have taken many hours of labour to make this, she thought. So that was what they had been up to, locked up in that forge for days. That was why they had all looked so sheepish. She smiled fondly at the thought of all the craftsmen; but she also knew that, though they had all had a hand in this, the blade was Thorin’s work alone, for it was made with a skill surpassing anything she had yet seen.

He had made her a sword with his own hands.

Helmwyn sheathed the sword again, and ran her fingertips over the runes that spelled FEARLESS; and she thought of the lord Thorin’s words to her, and her heart raced once more. She was moved with deep emotion, but which exactly, she could not rightly say. So much had happened in the past few days, and she could not disentangle this now.

She held the sword close, and was very still, communing silently with the weapon. So, you and I are to be friends, she thought. That is good, for I like you well. ‘Fearless’, he called you. Well, we shall have to do our best, won’t we, you and I?

There was a knock on the door. “Helmwyn? Are you in there?” It was the lady Ortrud.

“Come in, my aunt. I just wanted a moment alone with my new friend here.”

“May I see her?” asked Ortrud with a grin.

“Of course you may. Here,” said Helmwyn, and handed the weapon to her aunt.

Ortrud took the sword and drew it, and eyed the blade expertly. She swung it once or twice, feeling its weight and balance and flexibility. Then she sheathed it again, and handed it back to Helmwyn, and gave her niece a long, earnest look.

“He who made you this does you a great honour,” said Ortrud.

“Aye, my aunt, I know that well. This is no mere trinket. He trusts me to fight and kill.”

“So do I, child. Come here,” said Ortrud, and hugged Helmwyn closely; for she loved her niece, and had great belief in her. But as she knew her well, so did she also guess the nature of her feelings for the lord Thorin. Helmwyn felt a lump in her throat again, and fought to keep her tears in check.

“He is a canny weaponsmith,” said Ortrud. “This sword is wonderfully balanced, and just right for your size. And the blade is a marvel. But what about these?” she asked, and peered more closely at the crossguard. “Are they supposed to be horses?”

Helmwyn wiped her eyes and laughed brightly. “In truth, I do not rightly know!” said she. “But I care not. They are very beautiful, and fierce-looking, whatever they are.”

Ortrud gave Helmwyn another brief hug. “Now come into the hall and show us your new friend! Your uncle has returned, and everyone else will want to have a look at her too.”

“I will, my aunt. Just give me a moment.”

Ortrud left, and Helmwyn breathed deeply, willing herself to be calm. She waited a few minutes until she was sure there was no redness about her eyes, and her voice was steady; and she took up the sword, braced herself, and went into the hall. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) To be fair, Thorin’s main point of comparison was his sister Dís, the highest-born dwarven lady he knew. And Dís was…well, let us say she was extremely different to the lady Helmwyn.


	28. Chapter 27

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 27**

 

The lord Telramund had returned with his men, and the hall was full of riders and captains, drinking and noisily discussing the latest patrol. They had clearly heard the tale about the sword; for as soon as Helmwyn appeared, she was greeted by a chorus of cheers, and all demanded to see the weapon. Normally Helmwyn should have been glad to show it to them, and to hear them praise its maker. But as she saw the sword being passed from hand to hand and admired, she found that she could not bear for all those men to touch it; and soon enough she snatched Fearless back from them, and sought out her uncle. She needed to speak to him alone.

“Uncle,” she called.

Telramund walked towards her, and they sought a quiet corner where they could talk. “Child.”

“Tell me about Maldon. What of the Orcs?”

“We ran some of them down, though not all. They had scattered, and we were too late.”

“What about the children?” Helmwyn asked.

Telramund looked into his niece’s earnest eyes, and understood that she knew; and he shook his head, and did not answer. For the first time, Helmwyn thought that he looked old.

Meanwhile the men, deprived of the sword, had turned to the smith instead; and Thorin, who would have liked nothing better than to sit quietly in his corner with his drink, found himself surrounded by warriors who clapped him on the shoulders, and wanted to commission weapons from him. He acknowledged their praise with a strained smile, and patiently explained that any commission would have to wait until the works on the Hornburg were finished; but the men were drunk and boisterous, and Thorin felt that they were not listening to him.

“But I hear that you have received a magnificent gift,” Telramund told Helmwyn in an attempt to lighten the mood; and he indicated the sword that she clutched to her breast.

“Aye,” said she. “That was rather unexpected.” Telramund smiled; but Helmwyn glanced across the hall to where Thorin stood, surrounded by enthusiastic customers. “I shall show it to you later, when things have quietened down,” she said. “At present, every one seems too intent on getting their hands on it.”

Ortrud made her way through the crowd bearing mugs of ale; and she gave one to Helmwyn and one to Telramund, and kissed her husband.

“You should have seen the girls today,” she told him. “You would have been so proud of them.”

Helmwyn looked away, and drank, for she had need of it.

“Uncle,” said she, “know you whether either of my brothers is patrolling at the moment?”

“Nay, I do not think so.”

“And the King did not intend to ride west for several days. So I shall go.”

“You mean to ride out?” asked Telramund.

“Aye, that I must,” said she. “The house of Eorl must be seen. Now more than ever.”

“Very well,” said he, and put his hand on his niece’s shoulder, for he was proud of her indeed.

Helmwyn turned around again, and saw that Balin and Dwalin had managed to rescue Thorin from the group of drunken Riders; and this time her gaze met his, and she thought that he looked troubled. But the hall was crowded, and they spoke no more that evening; and it was just as well, for they would not have known what to say to each other.

***

Helmwyn caused another stir when she swept out of the hall the following morning wearing her bright suit of armour. “Well, Masters,” she called to the Dwarves, “are you ready?”

“Already giving that armour an airing, lass?” said Dwalin, as they walked with her to the stables. “Are you expecting any Orcs on the way to the Hornburg?”

“Maybe not on the way to the Hornburg, Master Dwalin,” said she; “but certainly after that! I shall go with you to Helm’s Deep to gather some men, but afterwards I shall ride out. The people of the Westfold must see that the house of Eorl does not sleep! But what say you, my lord?” she asked Thorin. “Perhaps I should repeat yesterday’s performance in front of the troops? That might garner us a few more axemen’s worth of courage!”

Thorin was silent, for he was dismayed. He did not wish her to go, but neither would he do her the insult of begging her to stay. After all, he had just given her a sword; he could not now ask her not to use it.

Balin noticed the look on Thorin’s face, and gave Dwalin a nudge and a very significant look.

“What?” Dwalin asked his brother, and then the penny dropped. “Oh. Er. Might I come with you this time, my lady?” he asked. “My axes are getting restless, for since we came here they have hewn nothing but wood!”

Helmwyn was pleasantly surprised. “Thank you, Master Dwalin. If you are not yet weary of riding, I should certainly be glad of your company!”

“Not at all, not at all, the pleasure is all mine!” said Dwalin, and glared at his brother.

***

Thorin was in a sombre mood again, but now he brooded rather over the lady than over the Mountain.

He had watched with a sinking heart as she rode away; and ever since he had fretted about her safety, more than he ever had before. No tidings came, and there was nothing for it but to labour joylessly, and wait for her return; and the days seemed endless. But at night, he lay awake, while his companions snored; and his sleepless hours were spent thinking about her, as though that might somehow magically keep her safe from harm.

When he slept at last, his dreams were fearful; and he saw himself in the forge, but the sword he was making was falling apart in his hands, and try as he might, he could not mend it. Or else he saw the lady return at last, but when she drew closer, he saw that she had an arrow in her throat; and when he pointed this out to her, she laughed about it, and said it might bring in a few more axemen. Thorin would wake bathed in cold sweat, and sink again into a restless sleep; and the following day he would be ever more downcast.

He took to sitting under the linden tree on his own again, smoking his pipe, as had been his habit at first (he had not been aware of this, but of late he had preferred to remain indoors in the evenings). In any case, he was poor company; and if he were confined inside, he would pace the hall like a caged bear, and growl at any who attempted to make light conversation.

The long and the short of it was that Thorin felt wretched in the lady’s absence, and dreaded the thought of losing her. He did wonder when, and how, she had become so dear to him; but as Balin might have observed, for someone who spent so much time in brooding introspection, Thorin had a surprising lack of insight into the motions of his own heart.

He kept thinking of how she had appeared to him that day, sword in hand, so lovely and so fierce. By the time a week had gone by, Thorin had decided that when she returned - if she returned - he would not merely ask for her hand; he would clasp her in his arms, and press his face against her throat, and beg her never again to put herself thus at risk.

***

Helmwyn thought she had seen concern in the lord Thorin’s eyes when she rode away; and she wondered whether she would see relief there when she returned, or pride, or aught else. She rode out for the Mark, aye, but also to make him proud, and so that she would not spend all her time pining over him. There was time enough for that in the saddle, but the company of soldiers and the task at hand took her out of herself; and in truth the task was endless.

They crossed great distances during the day, and looked for Orc-trails in the long grass; and they stopped at farms and homesteads to see if all were well, and to advise the people on their defence. But they were especially vigilant between dusk and dawn, and lit no fires in their camp; and they watched out for beacon fires in the distance, or for burning farms. Scouts rode incessantly around the camp, and they had hunting-hounds with them to pick up the scent of Orcs; and on moonlit nights they did not rest, but rode on in the faint, silvery light, and slept during the day.

If Dwalin found this trying, he did not complain; for indeed he was a hardened warrior, and the discomfort of patrolling on horseback and sleeping in the open was nothing to one who had been through the war against the Orcs in the Misty Mountains. He even began to feel the thrill of the chase again, whenever the hounds picked up a trail, and the Riders sped their mounts in pursuit; and he felt all his senses sharpened and intent.

His presence was a great comfort to Helmwyn; and when they rested, or made camp, she would sit with him most of all, and they would talk quietly. She would listen to his tales, and smile; but Dwalin noticed a sadness in the young lady’s eyes that he had not seen before. And he saw that when she fell asleep under the open sky, weary from the day’s ride, whether under the stars or in bright daylight, Helmwyn ever held Thorin’s sword clasped to her breast.

***

Thorin sat dejectedly under the old linden tree. He vaguely wondered whether or not he ought to start rationing his pipe-weed. He had counted on being able to acquire more in Eriador; but now he was far away to the south, and his supply was dwindling fast. He pondered this for a moment; and he decided that he needed a pipe now, and would deal with the penury later, when it came to that. In any case, if anything happened to the lady, smoking would bring him little comfort. For all he knew, she might already be dead. Thorin pulled out his tobacco-pouch and filled his pipe fretfully.

The whole of Lindburg reminded him of the lady, but this place most of all; and he kept expecting her to walk across the green, as though she were just returning from the stables. He thought of the times when they had sat side-by-side in friendship, and talked, in this very spot. He had been concerned for her then, to be sure, but he had not feared for her as he did now. How he had ever been so light-hearted was now entirely beyond him.

Thorin leaned back against the tree, and closed his eyes, and inhaled the aromatic smoke. All will be well, he kept telling himself. She has ridden out many times before. Dwalin is out there with her, and a few score strapping Riders. Nothing will happen to her. He tried to brush aside visions of Wargs, and of stray arrows.

He was working on convincing himself, and failing, when he heard someone wander up to him. It was Balin.

“There you are, Thorin my lad,” said the older Dwarf genially. “Won’t you come inside?”

“No.”

“You spend all your evenings out here on your own. Come on, be a bit sociable.”

“No.”

Balin sighed. He decided to try another approach.

“Look, laddie,” he said in a kindly voice, “I know you have a lot on your mind… But you know you can always come to me with whatever’s troubling you.” He waited for a moment. Thorin said nothing. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” he asked.

“No.”

Balin gave up. He looked pained. “All right. Suit yourself,” he said; and he turned away, and went back inside, but not without giving Thorin a worried glance or two over his shoulder.

Thorin finished his pipe, and did not refill it. He did not feel in the least soothed. He gazed mournfully out into the dim vale. There was no breeze, and the scent of the linden-blossom hung almost unbearably sweet in the still air; and the placid evening seemed to mock his fears.

***

The two _eóred_ thundered towards one another; and they did not clash, but instead they curved into one another until they formed one circle, and the Riders slowed their steeds to a standstill. It was quite a manoeuvre, but the Riders of the Mark were excellent horsemen. Dwalin felt a little challenged by this, but thankfully the _mearas_ were intelligent beasts, and his horse steered itself, and spared him any major embarrassment.

The leaders of the two companies rode out into the middle of the circle, and reined in their mounts side-by-side, and removed their helms. Helmwyn was weary, and travel-stained; and Dwalin thought that she looked rather sullen. But the other captain was a tall young man with chiselled features and a clipped beard; and his armour was bronze, embossed with green leather, and it _gleamed_.

“Waldred!” called the lady Helmwyn. “We were no longer expecting you. How kind of you to come at last.”

The captain flashed her a bright grin. “Why, sister! It is good to see you, too. I fancied a change of scenery. Aldburg was getting dull.”

“Why?” said Helmwyn drily. “Have you run out of tavern wenches?”

Waldred grinned again, and ignored her question. “I have just come from Helm’s Deep,” he said pleasantly. “I must say, your Dwarves have done impressive work – all the more impressive considering the size of the fellows. They are a surly bunch though, aren’t they?”

Dwalin glared at him, and so did Helmwyn.

“I hear you spurned my hauberk and my old sword,” Waldred went on; “and I see you have armour of your own now. How charming.” He looked his sister up and down. “I also hear you were given a pretty little jewelled sword. Let us see it.”

Helmwyn could usually deal with her brother’s mockery; after all, she had had to put up with it all her life. But at that moment she decided that she did not have the patience for this; not now, not anymore. In a flash, she had drawn Fearless, and held it at her brother’s throat. Waldred looked into her eyes, and his grin paled.

“Have a care, brother,” said Helmwyn coolly; “for appearances can be deceptive. This pretty little thing has a heart of dwarven steel; and she has a thirst!” and with that, she turned to the Riders. “A thirst for Orc-blood!” she cried, and held up her sword; and Helmwyn’s _eóred_ responded with cheers, and cries of ‘ _Unforht!_ ’; and Waldred’s _éored_ laughed with relief, and took up the cry.

Helmwyn smiled, and sheathed her sword once more; but as the Riders cheered, she leant closer to her brother, and hissed: “Do not _ever again_ belittle me in front of the men, brother.”

“My darling sister! From now on, I promise only to do it in private,” answered Waldred, and that infuriating grin of his had returned. But although his sister had often bristled at his taunting over the years, he had seen something grim in Helmwyn’s eyes that he had not seen before.

“You find everything so amusing, do you not, brother?” said she. “Well, may you find your hunt in the Westfold entertaining.”

She wanted to leave, but Waldred laid a hand on her arm, and looked at her in earnest. “Sister. Has anything happened?”

Perhaps he really was being earnest; she could never really tell. She did love him, but he had made her angry; and she snapped at him: “What do you think? Orc-raids have happened. Death has happened, and pillage. And worse things.” And with that she put on her helm, and spurred her horse; and the circle of Riders parted to let her through, and Helmwyn’s _éored_ set off eastwards once more.

***

“Well, Master Dwalin,” called Helmwyn as they rode; “that was my dear brother Waldred!”

“May I speak plainly, my lady?”

“I pray you, do! I would hear your honest opinion!”

“With all due respect, lady: he’s a git.”

Helmwyn laughed, and she felt glad to have Dwalin by her side.


	29. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin may have the emotional intelligence of an anvil, but he does come to a painful realisation eventually - and about bloody time, too.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 28**

Halfdan the bard had returned to Lindburg; but Thorin had remembered what he had said to the old man on their first meeting. Together with Balin and Snorri, he had spent some time making little levers, and now they affixed them to Halfdan’s harp, and adjusted the tuning. The bard watched with some trepidation as the Dwarves tampered with his instrument, but he saw their skill and the deftness of their hands, and said nothing, but waited.

“There, Master Halfdan,” Thorin said at last, “she now has a few more notes than to begin with. I trust you will find a use for them?”

He handed the harp to Halfdan, who flicked the levers experimentally and tried a few different scales. His face lit up.

“I thank you, Masters!” said he. “To be sure, this will take some getting used to, but I daresay this old bard is not yet too old to learn some new scales, or to write some new songs!” and with that, he bowed to the Dwarves.

Thorin was about to demonstrate some tunes to Halfdan, when they heard the sound of hooves approaching; and Thorin’s heart tightened, for he knew not whether these Riders brought glad news, or woe. But a few minutes later, the lady Helmwyn strode into the hall; and though she was travel-stained and saddle-sore, she was alive and unhurt, and a great weight fell from Thorin’s chest.

“I see I return just in time to catch you, Master Halfdan!” called she merrily. “But give me a moment before you begin with the singing, I pray you; I need a bath! How have you all been?”

Helmwyn hugged her aunt, and Dwalin who had come in with her clapped his companions on the shoulders. “By my beard, am I glad to be back! Confound this horse-riding, my arse has gotten even more leathery than it already was!” said he, and roared with laughter.

But Thorin did not walk up to the lady, and he did not pull her into an embrace; and he now felt foolish even for thinking of doing that. Instead, he merely stood before her, and nodded to her.

“I am glad of your safe return, my lady,” said he; and his eyes blazed under his black brows.

“As am I, my lord,” the lady answered. But she held his gaze for a moment, and smiled at him; and for that moment Thorin forgot to breathe.

***

Supper was brought, and Helmwyn joined the company a while later, bathed and cheerful. She sat down at table just as Dwalin was telling them all about the week’s patrol.

“It was great fun, actually!” Dwalin was saying.

“I thought you hated riding,” objected Balin.

“Well, I say that; but it does have its advantages when you’re hunting Orcs in the plains. For instance, when we came across this Orc-trail. The grass was very tall, but of course from where we were sitting, we could see their trail in the moonlight. Anyway, so we split the _éored_ , and got them surrounded; and when they realised we were there, they came at us, but they were surrounded by this wall of Riders, and all we had to do was pick them off one by one. Now, the Riders were using their spears or swords, but I don’t really fancy that, so I got out my good old hammer, and I was just riding around, whacking their heads off with every swing _(1)_. That’s another good thing about horse-riding, the Orc-heads are at just the right height.”

Dwalin gave a helpful demonstration of his technique, and the company laughed. Halfdan called to him: “This is quite a tale, Master Dwarf! There is a song in that!”

“Well, if that’s the way your people remember me, I couldn’t be more pleased,” answered Dwalin. “By all means, Master Halfdan, make us a song of it!”

There was more laughter; and Dwalin went on to tell of Wargs so full of spears they looked like porcupines. But Thorin was only half-listening. The lady Helmwyn sat near him, and all the while he was intensely aware of her presence; and he watched the way her damp hair coiled and waved about her shoulders as it dried.

At last all rose, and moved towards the fire; and the minstrels tuned their instruments and prepared to play. But Helmwyn remained seated, and Thorin remained with her; and his heart beat faster.

“I hear you met my brother Waldred,” said Helmwyn conversationally. “I hope he was not too rude to you, or to your companions.”

“I fear he was, lady,” answered Thorin; and they grinned at each other, and looked down.

There was a silence. Thorin stared at the lady’s wrists.

“So…you tried out the sword?” he asked her.

“Aye, my lord, I did.”

“And…it is to your satisfaction?”

Helmwyn’s smile widened. “My lord! You know full well that sword is a marvel!” She paused, then said in earnest: “Thank you.”

Thorin looked into the lady’s eyes, and he saw that they had a pattern of silver and dark grey in them, like forge-welded steel. There was another silence; and Thorin cast around for something to say to her.

“You were missed, my lady,” he told her at last. “Lindburg seemed duller in your absence.” It was a terribly trite thing to say, but it was true, at least as far as he was concerned.

Helmwyn would normally have quipped that things were bound to feel quieter when Dwalin was gone, too; but she did not. Instead, she tentatively lowered her guard. “You too were missed, my lord,” she said.

“How so?”

“I fear I have grown used to our talks,” said she. “Dwalin was merry company, to be sure. But often I wished to tell you something, or to ask for your counsel; but alas, you were not there.”

“Well, here I am,” said Thorin. “Is there aught you would tell me or ask me now?”

Helmwyn gave him a searching look; and for a few heartbeats she was tempted to tell him how dear he was to her. But she smiled, and gently shook her head. “Nay, my lord,” she said at last, “not now; for now I am content.”

Thorin held her gaze. He wanted to ask her, save that he could not find the words. He considered taking her hand; but the minstrels began to play, and the moment passed.

But the lady Helmwyn rose, and said to him: “Come, my lord. Shall we join the company?”

***

Thorin was in a strange mood. He stood in a slight daze, and listened distractedly to the singing; and when Halfdan called upon him to play, Thorin only put up a half-hearted defence as he was dragged into the circle, and the harp was pressed into his unresisting hands. He sighed, for he was out of practice; but he flicked a few levers, and fell back on an old and well-loved tune he had known since childhood.

It was a song of home, of which the Dwarves had many; but it had existed long years since before the dragon came. It was not a lament as such, yet the Dwarves were moved to hear it; and even though Thorin did not sing, each Dwarf knew the words of the song in his heart, and remembered. It spoke of the high moorlands around Erebor, and of the wind through the heather and the briars, and of the Lonely Mountain in the distance. Even to the company of Men, the music had a wistfulness to it, for it was a modal tune such as they had not heard before; and all were amazed to see Thorin pluck such exquisite sadness from the harp with those great hands of his.

He received a warm round of applause as he finished, which he acknowledged with a nod; and he gave back the harp, and made his way to the bench in the corner, ignoring any entreaties for him to go on playing. Helmwyn brought him a cup of mead, and sat beside him, as she always did; but now Thorin’s heart was heavy again, though this was not on account of the song.

“You play beautifully, my lord,” Helmwyn told him; “but I should dearly have wished to hear you sing again.”

Thorin shook his head. “Nay, lady, not tonight,” he answered; “for I know no merry songs, and this is a merry evening.”

It should have been merry for him too; for after all, his heart had been lifted by the lady’s return. But now, even as she sat alive and warm and smiling beside him, Thorin felt troubled.

He had become tongue-tied again. But then, he could hardly talk to her here, amid all these people. He needed to speak to her alone; somewhere quiet, where he could gather his wits. He thought about asking her to meet him outside. He would go and wait under the linden tree; and he would fret about whether or not she would come, and his pipe would probably snap between his fingers. And if she did come, for the sake of their friendship, what would he do then? He would take her hand -

\- and he would stand there, like a fish out of water, completely lost for words. Nay, it was useless.

Thorin drank, and listened balefully to Halfdan singing a lay of King Brytta’s deeds, or so the lady told him. It was, of course, in the tongue of the Mark, which he did not understand; but Helmwyn did not wish him to feel left out, and so she leaned closer, and whispered a translation to him as Halfdan sang. She need hardly have troubled herself, for Thorin heeded only her voice in his ear, and her breath in his hair; and the meaning of the words was entirely lost on him.

When the song was over, Helmwyn laughed, and Thorin thanked her; and she rose, and went to refill their cups. But as he watched her disappear among the assembled guests, Thorin knew the lady’s return had not eased his longing; for now that she had returned indeed, he longed for her still, and sought to be near her, and became restless if she so much as crossed the room.

She came back soon enough, bearing full cups. But even as she sat next to him, Thorin was filled with yearning, though he hardly knew what it was he yearned for. Thorin longed to… he wanted to… do what, exactly? To reach out, and touch a lock of her golden hair, perhaps; and to coil it around his fingers. In truth he knew not; but the lady’s very closeness was both a delight and a torment to him.

But Helmwyn was in glad spirits, and soon she rose again, and stepped into the circle, and offered to sing. The company greeted the suggestion with cheers, and it was agreed that she would give them the lay of Eorl the Young. This must truly have been well known by all, for as the lady began the first verse, all the company sang along with her; and indeed the song spoke of the father of the Eorlingas, the long-ago hero who brought his people south to dwell in the Mark.

There were many verses though, and after the first few, the lady continued alone; and eventually she broke off, and spoke to Halfdan: “This is endless! Let us go on to the battle scene, shall we?”

“Aye, the Silverlode! The Silverlode!” chorused the listeners; and amid the cheering, Helmwyn resumed her song with the famed battle of the Fields of Celebrant. Her voice was strong and passionate as she sang of her glorious forefather, who fulfilled his oaths, and saved Gondor, and won a new land for his people. Thorin watched her from where he sat at the edge of the room, and he saw the effortless grace of her movements, and her fierce joy as she sang of battle, and the way her hair rippled down her back.

But Balin watched Thorin watching the lady; and he saw how dejected he looked, and knew that it was too late now to say anything. And so he remained where he was, and worried about his Prince. But had Balin asked him then, Thorin would have admitted that he loved the lady.

It did not feel anything like what he would have expected. It stung, it burned, it gnawed at his insides. It felt like fear. And yet, as he looked upon the lady, Thorin doubted not that he loved her indeed. He loved her laughter, and her earnest eyes. He loved her courage, and her black moods. He even loved that way she had of impatiently pushing up her long sleeves. He wondered how he could have been so blind that he understood this only now.

He also wondered why he felt so wretched. Perhaps it was because, seeing her so fair and free, he realised that she did not need him.

***

Helmwyn lay in the dark with the sword clasped to her breast; and she smiled to herself. She had treasured every moment of that evening.

She had been so glad, so very glad to see the lord Thorin again. To be sure, his own heart had been heavy; and in truth, she knew that music made him even more melancholy than usual. And yet he had been as kind and courteous to her as ever, and she was thankful for that. And though they had spoken little, Helmwyn had felt close to him again, perhaps closer than ever before. She cherished the lord Thorin’s friendship, for she guessed that was a very rare gift indeed; and she was content merely to be near him, and asked for no more.

Helmwyn thought of the lord Thorin’s proud, sorrowful eyes, and of his dark voice, and of his quiet strength; and she held the sword closer to her fiercely beating heart.

***

Thorin lay in the dark, and frowned to himself.

When he had seen the lady walk in, so lithe and strong in her bright armour, Thorin knew at once that he had been a fool for thinking of asking her to ride out no more; for this was who she was, and he loved her for it, and would not change her, even if he could. And he reflected that he could never merely claim such a lady, regardless of his birth; he would have to win her.

Thorin began to wonder whether there was anything he could offer her that she might actually want. He had already given her as fine a sword as he could make; but perhaps there was something else he could do for her, to keep her safe, besides hauling blocks of stone at the Hornburg. It might even win her heart – or at least, enough admiration or gratitude to sway her decision when he eventually _did_ ask her.

Besides, he could no longer sit idle, and watch, and wait, while his lady went out to fight. His pride as a warrior, as a prince, as a _male_ chafed at this.

And so Thorin came to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Some scholars have argued that this is one of the possible origins of the game of polo. The issue is, of course, hotly debated in academic circles.


	30. Chapter 29

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 29**

 

The next morning all sat in the hall breaking their fast, when Thorin walked in fully armed, and went and stood rather formally by the corner of the table where Helmwyn, Telramund and Ortrud sat.

“My lady, might I speak with you?” he told Helmwyn. And to Telramund: “My lord, this concerns you also.”

Oh no, thought Balin, here comes the big one.

“I have thought long about your war against the Orcs,” Thorin said; “and it is my belief that you cannot defeat them solely by hunting them on the plains. That is why I propose to assemble a small band of men from among the mountain-dwellers now stationed at Helm’s Deep; and with them I shall go up into the White Mountains, and seek out the Orcs’ hiding-places.”

Helmwyn stared at Thorin. Everyone else stared at Thorin. This wasn’t what Balin had expected, but it was still pretty bad.

“This is not your fight, my lord,” said Helmwyn; and Balin thought much the same.

“Alas,” answered Thorin, “it was my fight; but now it has been brought to you.”

“I would not have you thus seek peril, Thorin Thráinsson,” said the lady; “for indeed you are needed elsewhere, both by your people, and by mine.”

“Long have I fought the Orcs in this manner, my lady, and dealt out death and cruel deeds beneath the stone,” answered Thorin. “Such warfare holds no fear for me. But I would do this, for the sake of your people; and my honour demands it.”

Helmwyn was dismayed; but she looked into Thorin’s fiercely burning eyes, and knew there was no arguing with him.

“You are a stern lord, and resolute,” said she at last. “I see you are determined to do this; and there is naught for me to say, but to thank you in the name of the Mark, and to bless your weapons.”

“Then with your leave, my lady, I shall go now and see to the necessary preparations.” And with that Thorin bowed to her, and strode out of the hall.

Helmwyn hung her head.

Telramund was amazed; and not least by the fact that the lord Thorin had spoken first and foremost to his niece about this, rather than to him. “What is the meaning of this, Helmwyn?” he asked. “Is there aught that I should know?”

But Ortrud held Helmwyn’s hand, and tried to comfort her.

“Alas,” said Helmwyn. “I believe the lord Thorin blames himself for the plight of the Mark – for having driven the Orcs out of the Misty Mountains.”

“He has told you about this?” asked Telramund.

“Aye. I thought I had assuaged his qualms on the matter. How wrong I was!”

Telramund considered this. “If the Dwarves made war on the Orcs, I for one cannot say that I blame them,” said he at last. “Aye, these Orcs have come to plague us, and it may be that the Dwarves are the cause of this; but they slew many of them, and at great cost to their own people. It is hard to unravel causes and consequences in this matter, to be sure, and I would not venture to try. But be that as it may: what the lord Thorin proposes goes far beyond the call of honour! I shall go and try to talk him out of it.”

“Nay, my uncle; it is useless. You do not know the stubbornness of Dwarves!”

Telramund did not answer, but he could see that his niece was grieved. But Ortrud had her arm around Helmwyn’s shoulders, and hoped for her sake that she would not have to lose another fine warrior to the Orcs.

***

Balin and Dwalin tried to keep up with Thorin as he swept out of the hall.

“The lady is right, Thorin, my lad!” said Balin. “This isn’t our fight. This isn’t what we came here for. Why get involved?”

Thorin stopped, and looked gravely at both of them. “I feel compelled to do this, my friends; but I do not ask you to put your lives at risk. I shall go alone with the mountain-boys if need be.” And with that he turned away, and strode toward the town. They stood there and watched him go.

“Now what?” said Dwalin. “I can’t very well watch her back AND go gallivanting with him in the mountains!”

“I think in this case the heir of Durin takes precedence, brother,” said Balin sombrely. “And there was I, thinking we were done with fighting. I mean, how _stupid_ can he be? Going and risking his life, just to impress a girl? I know he’s only in his sixties, but still! You’d think he would have learned a thing or two by now!”

“Well, be fair. He’s the one who’s always going on about family and duty and honour.”

“Aye, and then he goes and does something like this! And of course, there’s no point saying anything. You heard him. ‘If you don’t like it, you don’t have to come.’ As if I’d let him wander off with just you and a bunch of horseboys who’ll be a liability more than anything else!”

“So we’re going?”

“Of course we’re going.” Balin rubbed his eyes. “Catch up with him, will you? I’ll go and get Snorri.” For what Thorin had in mind, they would definitely have need of Snorri’s talents.

***

Helmwyn was sick with fear. She wanted to run after the lord Thorin, to plead with him, and to beg him not to go. But she also guessed that nothing she could say would now sway him from his course; not now that he had announced his intentions before the whole of Lindburg. He had made sure of that.

It was a matter of honour, he had said. Helmwyn blamed herself. If she had but spoken more eloquently to him, that night in Edoras, perhaps he would not have felt compelled to do this. And yet she had thought the matter settled. How wrong she had been.

She tried to cling to the knowledge that the Dwarves had fought their wars in such a way for many years; and doubtless the lord Thorin viewed venturing into the mountains much as she viewed taking out an _éored_ on patrol – not without peril, to be sure, but a well-tried tactic of his people, which he fully mastered. But try as she might, Helmwyn could not view his suggestion as anything but deadly peril.

She could not bear the thought of losing him. Not now. Not again. Not him. And had she been entirely honest with herself, Helmwyn would have had to admit how angry she was at the lord Thorin, and his stubborn pride.

***

“Two dozen?” said Thorin, eyeing the contents of the wooden crates. “Is that all?”

“That’s as much as we could cobble together at such short notice,” answered Snorri. “What did you expect, out here in the sticks?

“I guess you’re right, laddie,” said Balin. “Can’t possibly go up into the mountains with only two dozen-”

“It will have to do,” said Thorin.

“Wouldn’t you rather postpone until we- ?”

“It shall do.” Thorin’s voice brooked no argument.

Balin saw the grim light in Thorin’s eyes, and sighed. “It’s your decision, my lad,” said he; and the Dwarves proceeded to secure the crates onto the ponies, along with the rest of their baggage.

“Thorin Thráinsson!” called the lady Helmwyn. Thorin turned around, and saw her walking towards the stables. He took a few steps towards her; and she came and stood before him, and spoke:

“Thorin Thráinsson, I say to you again: do not go; for you have no errand in the mountains.”

“Alas, lady, I do.”

“Is it then your errand to seek death?” she asked. “That is all you shall find up there.”

“It is not death that I seek, Helmwyn. Though assuredly I shall deal out death to any Orcs that cross my path.”

She looked long at him. “Will you not stay, for my sake?”

“It is for your sake that I go,” said Thorin.

Helmwyn did not know what to make of that; but if anything, it made her feel worse.

“If your honour will not have it otherwise, my lord, I pray you: at least accept this token,” said she; and she gave him a great black horn bound with silver.

It had been her husband’s, and had been given to him by the King. But Helmwyn had kept it after his death; not so much out of sentiment, but because it was a fine horn, deep-voiced and powerful, and she liked to wear it herself when she rode out. It was all she could think to give the lord Thorin, all that she had here in Lindburg that were appropriate; but she thought it would suit him.

Thorin took the horn from her, and examined it. The engraving on the silver seemed familiar. Dwarven make, he thought. Scatha’s hoard. He gave a crooked smile.

“I thank you for your gracious gift, my lady,” said he.

“This is no gift, my lord,” said Helmwyn; “it is only lent. Promise me that you will bring it back.”

Thorin gave her a searching look. “It is dear to you?”

“Aye, that it is,” answered she; “though not as dear to me as your sword.” Thorin wondered what she meant by that. “Promise me,” she said again.

“Very well, lady,” said Thorin. “I promise.”

Helmwyn would have liked to say or do more; but there were folk about, and before the stables, and she dared not. And so she pressed the lord Thorin’s hands, and turned away, and went back into the hall; and it seemed to Thorin that she was grieved. And he stood there, holding the horn, and he watched her go; and he began to wonder whether this venture into the mountains had been such a good idea after all.


	31. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This week, boys and girls, the Dwarves demonstrate some of their guerrilla tactics!
> 
> You may want to skip this bit if cruelty to animals is likely upset you.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 30**

They had ridden as far as they could, up the eastern foothills of the Thrihyrne, past abandoned villages and burned farmsteads; but soon enough there were no more tracks leading up into the mountains, and so they left their mounts behind in a ramshackle barn, and continued on foot.

Young Aldhelm felt a little heartsick as he turned back and looked down at the few huts below, for that had been his home before the Orcs came; but those of his companions who knew merely clapped him on the shoulder and said nothing. This was a relief, for Aldhelm had no wish to talk about the slaughter of his family; but he did want revenge, and he feared the Dwarf would leave him behind if he appeared too soft. He was amazed that he had not been told to stay behind with the ponies, for it seemed that the Dwarf had already taken a dislike to him; but then, the Dwarf seemed to dislike everyone.

Thorin had gone to Helm’s Deep and asked for volunteers from among the few mountain-dwellers, in the hope that they would prove reasonably sure-footed. Some men had been held back by the fear of the Dead who walked abroad. But others hated the Orcs more than they feared the Dead, and had stepped forward; and Dwalin had picked twenty of the best fighters among them. Aldhelm had been chosen, much to his surprise; but he was skilled with a bow, and Dwalin had said that this would prove useful. The men had seen Dwalin at work, and trusted him as a fighter; and all acknowledged Thorin’s leadership, although he was withdrawn, and taciturn, and surly.

“Wrap up warm, lads! The nights are cold in the mountains!” he had told them, as though they did not know.

Indeed, the nights were cold, for Thorin would not allow fires to be lit when they made camp. Their meals were cheerless; and in the dark, the men remembered the tales about the Dead who dwelt in the high passes, and their hearts were not as assured as they had been under the glad sunlight. But the Dwarves did not seem to heed such tales, and told them rather to keep watch for Orcs.

Ever higher they climbed, and Aldhelm marvelled at the great weight in weapons that the Dwarves carried, in addition to their supplies; but the Dwarves made light of burdens, and climbed tirelessly, while the Men scrambled after them. The Dwarves had insisted that they take a number of sealed earthenware pots along with them; it was plain enough that these were not for eating, but what use they were, the Dwarves did not say.

They usually kept to themselves, and spoke little, and then mostly in their own tongue; but Aldhelm tried his luck with Balin, who seemed the friendliest of the three, though that was no great achievement. “Master Dwarf,” the young man ventured, “I was wondering… How do you know where to go? Can you track the Orcs?”

“Believe me, lad, we hardly need to track them. These mountains are limestone; they’ll be rank with caves. Besides, tracking Orcs is not hard where things grow, for no other folk make such a trampling.”

Aldhelm considered this. “And on barren stone? How do you track them then?”

Balin chuckled. “How like a human. ‘Barren stone’. Stone isn't barren, my lad, not if you know how to read it! But that sort of thing is usually lost on other folk.”

“Can you teach me?”

Balin was surprised by the young man’s interest, and shot him a glance. “That’s an unusual request. Why would a horseboy like you want to learn to read stone?”

The young man looked a little shamefaced. “I don’t have a horse of my own,” he said. “But perhaps if I learned to track Orcs, I could…you know. Do my bit.”

“Very well, my lad. Keep your eyes open, and you might learn a thing or two.”

“Might you tell me what is in these jars we have been carrying?”

“Oh, this and that. Pitch. Sulphur. A couple of other things.”

“And what are they for?”

“You’ll see, lad, you’ll see. No sense in ruining the surprise,” answered Balin genially; but there was a fierce gleam in his eye.

A little later, they came across something that told them that they were on the right track.

“Now that, my lad, is Warg-filth,” said Balin. “Take a good look at it; there’s no mistaking it for the droppings of a mountain-goat.”

Aldhelm studied the mess. “Which way now?”

“Orcs may be able to crawl down sheer cliffs, but Wargs can’t. They went up that slope. See the way the stones have been disturbed?”

Aldhelm did not, but he had to take Balin’s word for it. They struggled up the slope, whilst loose stones kept rolling treacherously beneath their feet. But then, to their right, behind a rocky outcrop, they saw what they were seeking: gnawed bones and filth spilt down the mountainside, and above, the entrance of a cave.

Thorin signalled to them to be quiet, and to proceed with caution. The company climbed on, making as little noise as possible, and gathered behind the shoulder of rock. Thorin and Dwalin exchanged some more gestures, and it seemed to Aldhelm that the Dwarves had developed a complex language of signs; which indeed they had, and used so that they might steal upon their enemies silently. Dwalin took the best climbers with him, and slowly and stealthily they spread out above the mouth of the cave; and Balin had taken out the mysterious clay pots, and distributed them among the remaining men. “Careful with those!” he mouthed. But Thorin grabbed Aldhelm’s arm and whispered to him: “You. Archer. Come with me.”

He led him to the edge of the rock and pointed towards the cave. “Orcs,” he mouthed, and then gestured towards the sun; and Aldhelm understood that there were bound to be Orcs inside, but that they loathed daylight, and would be at a disadvantage if lured out of the cave. But then Thorin ordered him forward, and climbed to higher ground himself; and Aldhelm felt fear twisting his insides. But Thorin’s stout dwarven bow had a longer range than his, and there was nothing for it but to trust that he would give him cover.

Upon Thorin’s signal, Dwalin’s men began casting stones down the slope; and sure enough, an Orc emerged from the cave, squinting in the sunlight. He looked around, and saw the Dwarves; but Thorin’s arrow felled him before he had time to call out. At once more Orcs came forth, and Aldhelm pulled himself together, and took down two of them; for he was a good marksman, and the foe was blinded and bewildered.

They had taken out the sentries; but there was no knowing how many Orcs remained inside, and Dwalin positioned his men on the far side of the cave-mouth. Balin cautiously led his men forward towards the cave, and when all were in place, he nodded to his brother, who nodded back. Dwalin hefted his great hammer, and Balin produced curious sulphur-coated sticks of wood; and with these he set alight the tow that was attached to two of the clay jars. “Stand back, lads!” he hissed, and lunged forward, and hurled one, then another of the flaming pots inside the cave.

There was a crash, and a flash of light, and a roar, as the sticky mixture inside the jars spilled, and burst into flame. There were yowls, and yelps; and as Balin threw in two more jars, there were blood-curdling screams.

“Stand your ground, lads!” called Dwalin. “Here they come!”

Sure enough, more Orcs came running wildly out of the cave, blinded and trailing flame. The men fell upon them, and the Orcs died twitching; but Dwalin and Thorin stood squarely in the mouth of the cave, for something else was now hurtling towards them, something large and maddened with pain and fear. Aldhelm saw it at last: a monstrous wolf, as big as a horse, its matted fur on fire. It snarled and snapped at the Dwarves; but Dwalin struck it down with a mighty hammer-blow to the head, and Thorin sank his axe-blade into its neck, and killed it.

But behind the wolf had come smaller creatures, that ran around yelping and utterly bewildered. “Get them!” Thorin shouted. “Don’t let them escape!” Aldhelm caught one as it tried to dart past him, and he held it up by the scruff of its neck, for it was no bigger than a dog. It was, in fact, one of the wolf-creature’s young.

“Kill it!” bellowed Thorin. “What do you think we came here for?”

The creature was ugly and snarling, but Aldhelm saw its distress, and hesitated. “It’s only a pup!”

“Only a pup?” growled Thorin. “Would you like to speculate about how many of your Riders that pup will bring down if it is allowed to live?” And with that he grabbed the Warg pup by its hind legs and dashed its head against the rock-face.

“Great use you are,” muttered Thorin. “Should have left you to look after the ponies.” He shoved the dead creature into Aldhelm’s arms, and stalked off into the burning cave with a grim light in his eyes, to dispatch whatever was still alive in there.

***

When the fighting was over, they hauled all the corpses back inside the cave so that they might burn. The Warg was too heavy to move though, so they left it where it was, still smouldering. Thorin was loath to leave all that meat for the Orcs, but neither did he wish to waste any of the precious pitch on burning it.

They removed to a sheltered ledge further away, where they had a good vantage-point over the cave-mouth and its surroundings. As the sun began to turn westwards, billows of rancid smoke were still trailing from the cave.

“Takes you back, doesn’t it?” said Dwalin.

“Aye, that it does,” answered Thorin.

They spoke no more, but each Dwarf, in his mind, felt like he was back in the Misty Mountains years ago, fighting the long war against the Orcs. The memory was grim, and sorrowful; but the brothers-in-arms shared a bond of fellowship that needed no words.

“You’d better get some shut-eye, my lad,” Balin told Aldhelm. “The nearest nests will have smelt the pyre. They’ll come for us at nightfall. All we have to do is wait.”

Aldhelm swallowed nervously. “You mean we’ll have to fight them in the dark?” he said.

Dwalin and Thorin exchanged a look. These humans. No night vision.

“Lucky for you there’s a moon, then,” said Dwalin.

“If your night-eyes are so bad, you can take the first watch,” said Thorin gruffly; and with that he settled himself against a rock, closed his eyes and tried to snatch some sleep.

Balin saw Aldhelm looking rather put out, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, lad. He’s always like that.”

“Is he?”

“Well…yes,” said Balin. The lad did not need to know the details. “You did well today,” he added encouragingly, and went to find a place to rest before the onslaught.

Aldhelm looked nervously around him, and settled down to watch, keeping his bow close to him. He listened for any sound of rocks being disturbed, for the scrape of rusty Orc armour, or the heavy breathing of Wargs; but he heard only the light snoring of his companions, and beyond, the great silence of the mountains. His pupils widened as the sun set beyond the Trihyrne, and the daylight slowly failed; and one by one the stars flowered in the clear summer sky.

There was indeed a moon, bright almost as daylight; and Aldhelm thought that the Orcs would fall upon them in the small hours, when the moon had set, and the night was so dark that the men would not be able to see their own hands, let alone tell friend from foe. Aldhelm felt the fear in his belly again.

It was not long, however, before Thorin stirred, and wandered over to him. “Get some rest, lad,” Thorin said; and his voice was not unkind. “I know I can’t.”

Aldhelm went and lay down with his head on his pack, and gathered his cloak around him, for the night was getting cold. The last thing he saw before he fell into a fitful sleep was the great, stern Dwarf, leaning on his great axe, gazing out over the mountains in the silvery light; he was so still that he might have been carven in stone, were it not for his hair that stirred lightly in the night wind.

***

Helmwyn was sleeping badly. She hoped fervently that sheer exhaustion would allow her to sleep this night at least; and she began to drift off whilst her cousin Ortlind got ready for bed, and eventually blew out the candle. The girl lay in the dark for a while, and fidgeted. Eventually she asked:

“Helmwyn?”

“Yes, cousin?” said Helmwyn sleepily.

“Why do you sleep in your boots and breeches?”

“I always do that when I ride out; but since the raid on Maldon, I thought I should do it here, too. That way I can be ready more quickly if the horns are sounded.”

“And is that why you sleep with your sword?”

Helmwyn wondered whether the child were beginning to show insight.

“Nay,” answered she. “That is so no-one can sneak up and steal it.”

“You like it very much, don’t you.”

“Yes, I do. It is a beautiful sword.”

“Are you in love with that Dwarf?” asked Ortlind.

Confound the child, thought Helmwyn.

“What Dwarf?” said she as evasively as she could.

“You know. The tall dark one with the frown.”

Helmwyn actually had to smile at that.

“That would be the lord Thorin. You had better learn his name, for he is a prince, and a warrior of great renown.”

There was a lull.

“Well?” said Ortlind.

“Well what?”

“ _Are_ you in love with him?”

“Whatever makes you say that?”

“You always say ‘my lord’ when you’re dreaming.”

Damn. Helmwyn hoped fervently that she had not done that on patrol. If she had, Dwalin was bound to have heard. But perhaps her dreams had not been as fearful then as they were now. Since the lord Thorin had left for the mountains, her nights had been ghastly.

“So,” the girl insisted, “are you or aren’t you?”

“Mind your own damned business,” snapped Helmwyn.

There was another silence; and Helmwyn hoped that her cousin would now hold her peace.

“I miss uncle Theodric,” came the girl’s voice.

Damn the child! So that was what this was about. Ortlind had been very fond of her late husband. Fancied him, probably. “I know,” said Helmwyn wearily. “So do I.”

“No, you don’t. You never speak about him. It’s like you weren’t even sad.”

“We all have different ways of dealing with loss, Ortlind,” said Helmwyn in an icy tone, hoping to make it very clear to her cousin that she was not to pursue this line of enquiry, either. Helmwyn rolled over and faced the wall in what she hoped was a very final way.

There was silence for a few blessed moments. But then Ortlind said:

“Helmwyn?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Can I ride out with you one day?

“First you have to train.”

“But if I train hard enough?”

Helmwyn sighed. “We shall see. Now be quiet and let me sleep.”

Ortlind said no more, but now Helmwyn found that she could not sleep. She lay awake, and worried about what Dwalin might have heard; though in truth, she cared little whether the lord Thorin pitied her or scorned her, provided that he came back from those mountains alive.

But Helmwyn also felt a gnawing guilt about her late husband. Theodric. How long had it been since she had even spoken his name aloud? Ortlind seemed to imply that her love for the lord Thorin was a betrayal of her husband’s memory. But in truth, Helmwyn felt rather that the very fact of having been wed somehow was a betrayal of the lord Thorin.

She hoped that the horn she had given him would not bring bad luck; for her husband had worn it the night he died. Helmwyn dismissed such thoughts as idle superstition; but she had greater trouble dismissing visions of the lord Thorin, his noble profile pale and cold as stone, and his piercing blue eyes closed forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, Wargs are animals too. Just not very nice ones.


	32. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Neither Thorin nor Helmwyn have much experience of love, but they would probably agree that it is a pretty wretched state of affairs.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 31**

 

“Helmwyn, you’re not concentrating!” said the lady Ortrud, not for the first time.

“I am sorry, aunt.”

“Don’t apologise. Fight! If this were a real fight, you would have died ten times over.”

“I know, my aunt.”

Helmwyn went to pick up her practice sword where it had fallen (she would risk no damage to Fearless) and readied herself for another onslaught. The round linden shields clashed, and Ortrud’s blows came fast, too fast; but Helmwyn was sluggish, and distracted, and dazed from lack of sleep, and soon enough her aunt’s blade was at her throat yet again.

“It is useless,” said Helmwyn at last, and planted her sword into the turf.

“I’ve never known you to give up so easily,” said Ortrud. “I’ve never known you to give up at all.”

“I am just wasting your time.” Helmwyn set down her shield, and sighed. “I might as well ride out.”

“You have only just come back!”

“What use am I if I stay here?” said Helmwyn. “I cannot train, I cannot sleep, I cannot _think_ …” She took off her helm, and rubbed her throbbing temples.

“You cannot ride out in this state,” said Ortrud; “you will only get yourself killed, or fall asleep in the saddle and break your neck.”

“What else am I to do? Sit around and _wait_ , like a poor powerless woman? I shall go mad if I stay here.”

Helmwyn did not say for whom she was waiting, and Ortrud did not ask, for she could guess well enough. She gazed sadly at her niece. “The waiting was always the worst part,” she said.

“How did you ever get used to it?” asked Helmwyn.

“I never did,” said Ortrud. Helmwyn looked at her aunt, and was moved that the she too, strong and capable as she was, also feared for the man she loved. But Ortrud went on: “I shall tell you what would have been even worse than waiting: not being there when they brought him back. That is why I stopped riding out. If ever something happened to Telramund, I wanted to be there.”

“Well, I _was_ there, my aunt, the night they brought Theodric back with that arrow in his throat. And as I recall, it was not much of a farewell,” Helmwyn said. There had been Riders standing around, getting in the way, servants milling around uselessly, her mother-in-law wailing, and a lot of blood. It had been grotesque.

“I know, Helmwyn,” said Ortrud; “I am sorry.”

Helmwyn shrugged. She tried to think clearly for a moment.

In truth, if the lord Thorin were to fall at the hands of the mountain-Orcs, Helmwyn very much doubted there would even _be_ a body. First of all, because if so mighty a warrior as the lord Thorin were slain, she did not think any of the lesser fighters would be left alive to bring his body down from the mountains. And secondly, she recalled what the Orcs had done to Thrór. Defiled his body, Gandalf had said. Helmwyn shuddered to imagine what that meant.

She took a few deep breaths and fought the nausea that had come with the unbidden images. Then she told her aunt:

“Nay, I will not wait. Whatever will befall will befall; and I do not believe that my staying or going will change anything. That is not how fate works. Fate does not make clever patterns for us to unravel. Fate is blind.”

***

And so Helmwyn rode out. And when Thorin came back to Lindburg and found that she was gone, he said nothing; but his heart tightened with anguish, like a red-hot coal clenched in an iron gauntlet.

***

It had been a fruitless hunt. They had scared up a few Orc scouts skulking among a group of boulders on the plains, but they had not come across any raiding-parties; and so they turned and rode back to Helm’s Deep soon enough. Helmwyn was glad that she had ridden out; for the bodily exertion had allowed her to sleep a little, and the discipline kept her sharp; but now she was riding home to the prospect of news, good or bad, and her stomach was sour with fear.

As she rode, she tried hard to convince herself that his scarcity of Orcs was nothing unusual, especially at this time of the year; and it need not mean that all the Orcs of the White Mountains had suddenly gathered to fall upon the lord Thorin and his twenty companions.

The _éored_ thundered down into the Deeping-Coomb, past the Dike, and towards the camp that spread out before the Wall; and they sounded their horns, and horns answered them in greeting. The Riders reined in their steeds, and slowed to a canter; and Helmwyn’s eyes scanned the camp, looking for the lord Thorin’s distinctive silhouette among all the men who walked between the tents or on the training-grounds. She spotted a group of ponies; and there he stood, black-bearded and broad-shouldered and alive. He had heard the horns, and watched the _éored_ coming in, and saw her; and Helmwyn’s heart leapt in her breast.

The Riders slowed to a halt; and Helmwyn dismounted, and gave Wísbraec’s reins to the first stable-hand she came across, and hurried towards the lord Thorin; and she cared not if her haste were unseemly.

“Thorin Thráinsson!” she called. He was busy with his saddlebag, but he turned, and watched her as she walked towards him with her helm under one arm; and it seemed to Helmwyn that his face brightened.

“Thorin Thráinsson! How glad am I to see you!” said she, beaming with relief.

“It is a joy to see you return hale and unharmed, my lady,” said Thorin; and he took a step towards her, and laid a hand on the neck of his pony. “Did you have a good hunt?”

Helmwyn twined her fingers in the pony’s mane. “The Orcs were rather thin on the ground, my lord,” she answered. “I expect you caused enough of a disturbance in the mountains to command their full attention!”

“It may be so,” said Thorin, and smiled. “Perhaps the tale is already spreading among them that one hundred dwarven axemen have come to wipe them out for good.” Helmwyn gazed into the lord Thorin’s clear blue eyes, and her smile widened.

“Snorri has been telling me about those fearsome fire-jars of his at great length,” said she. “I take it they worked?”

“That they did!” said Thorin. “Indeed they are invaluable. We had but few of them at first; but now Snorri has had a little time to produce some more. We shall also take greater numbers this time, for the Orcs will be on their guard; but the men fought well, and learned fast, and I have good hope that we shall be able to strike a decisive blow against this foe.” But even as he spoke, Thorin saw the smile fade from the lady’s lips.

“You mean…you are going back into the mountains?” said she.

“Aye, my lady. We came back for men and supplies, but today we shall leave again.”

Helmwyn stared at him in dismay. “Oh. I see. Forgive me; I thought you had only just returned. Perhaps I should…let you prepare, then,” she stammered, and made to leave.

“Lady Helmwyn!” Thorin called after her. She turned back to him, and he cast around for something to say to her. “Your horn…will you not need it?”

“Keep it for now, my lord,” said she a little hoarsely. “But I will hold you to your promise!”

Thorin’s eyes followed her as she strode away briskly. Helmwyn held her head high, but inside she felt hollow, and brittle. She made for the first empty tent, and once inside, she caved in, and wept bitterly, clamping her hands over her mouth so that the men would not hear.

It did not last long however, for she had never been able to weep freely; and soon enough she had steeled herself again. She put on her helm, and was grateful for once for the eye-guard that concealed half her face; and she walked through the camp in search of a barrel of cold water, that she might bathe her stinging eyes, and wash her tears away.

***

They spoke only a few fords of farewell before Thorin left for the mountains once more. He mounted up, and his gaze sought the lady to the last; and he gave a great blast on the black horn, and rode away. Helmwyn stood and watched as his company swept out of the Deeping-Coomb and passed out of sight. Then only did she turn, and stumbled away like one who is blind.

***

Thorin was despondent. He could see that something weighed greatly on the lady’s mind; but he knew not for certain whether it were only care for the Mark that grieved her, or not perhaps also care for him. Her demeanour at their recent partings had awakened a tremulous hope in him, but still he delayed speaking to her, for fear that he had deceived himself, and that she would not hear him.

Not that he had many occasions to see the lady, let alone speak to her; for she would ride out, or else he would be gone into the mountains, and they were seldom together in the same place anymore. But when they did meet, they were never alone, and they would exchange a few stilted words at most; Thorin would tell the lady that he had brought the horn back, and she would urge him to keep it a while longer. There seemed to be an awkwardness now, a formality even, in their dealings with each other; and Thorin was grieved that their closeness, and their talks by the fireside, were a thing of the past.

He did not know how much longer he could hold his peace. He must speak to the lady, if only to beg her to remain safely in Lindburg; for dread gnawed at him whenever she rode out. And if Thorin missed her cruelly now, he dared not think of the time when he would have to return to the Blue Mountains, and would never speak to her, or look upon her face again. That thought was more than he could bear.

And so Thorin would search the lady’s earnest grey eyes for an answer to his unspoken question, but he could never be sure of what he read there. But then she would ride away again, and Thorin would labour on at Helm’s Deep, or go up into the mountains to track Orcs; but ever he bore his brooding, unquiet love with him like a burden.

***

To Helmwyn, the bright world had become a mere dull background against which the lord Thorin alone stood out, proud and majestic.

Her heart felt heavy and hot as molten lead; and she endured her love like a dull ache that flared up into pain at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, at the very thought of him (and though she saw him seldom, he was seldom not in her thoughts). What she could not endure was the fear that assailed her whenever he ventured up into the mountains.

She would tell him before the summer was over. She must tell him, if only to plead with him not to put his life at risk – he would deny her, of course; yet tell him she must, for she could not bear this torment for much longer.

She doubted not that he was…fond of her, for he had ever been kind in his dealings with her. But how could such a lord ever feel aught but friendship for one of her kind? She must be as a mere child to him.

Yet he had made her a sword with his very own hands. That gift spoke of the very highest honour; and she remembered how he had looked at her, the day that he had given it, and other times since. That look had pierced her heart; but whether it was one of esteem, or of pity, or of aught else, she did not know.

She would have liked, just once, to twine her fingers in his black hair, and to kiss him, and to feel his strong arms around her – just once, before he pushed her away gently and honourably, as he undoubtedly would, and told her it could not be. For even if he did feel some affection for her, the fact remained that the lord Thorin was a prince, the heir to the royal line of his people, and would not wed any but one of his own race. Whichever way she turned it, it was impossible.

She found that hope, however tenuous, was a torment almost as great as fear. Better to be certain.

Helmwyn rested her brow against the cool stone of the Hornburg, and the very stones told her of the lord Thorin.

***

Once, on a day Helmwyn had returned to Helm’s Deep, there was a violent rainstorm, and the winds ripped at the tents, and whipped sheets of water against the walls of the Deep. The Deeping-Stream swelled, and hailstones started to fall; and those who could sheltered inside the Hornburg to wait for the storm to abate. Thorin saw her standing alone by a window, fair and grave, looking out at the stormy sky; and his heart tightened painfully inside his chest. But he went and stood next to her, as he had not done in a long time; and she turned and smiled at him.

“Do you like summer storms too, my lord?” she asked him. “I do not know why, but I find them comforting.”

“I would not say that I like them, as such,” he answered; “but I often find that they…match my mood.” And at that Helmwyn smiled more brightly, but her smile was fond rather than mocking; and she looked out at the sky again, and Thorin watched the storm reflected in her grey eyes.

They stood there together in silence, watching the rain sweep over the plains of the Mark; and it seemed to Thorin that the silence was not awkward, but spoke rather of a closeness that needed no words. Had she not stood with her arms crossed, he might even have taken her hand, as he had so lightly done before.

But while he stood brooding beside her, Helmwyn was happy; happy to be watching the wrath of nature, so close to the stern-faced Dwarf with the stormy brows.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, boys and girls, both our protagonists have been allowed to pine and stew for a bit. Do you think they are ripe yet? Is either one enough of a nervous wreck to take the initiative?


	33. Chapter 32

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 32**

The sun had been beating down relentlessly on the bare limestone cliffs; but now the afternoon air was hazy, and it felt as though another storm were brewing in the mountains. It would come as a relief, for the air was close and heavy, and the heat was such that all but Grimwald had left their mailshirts behind. In truth, as they scrambled over the rocks, Grimwald was beginning to regret that he had not done the same.

Hogni held the maps, and led the way; and Andvari walked with him. Grimwald and Helmwyn followed behind with a few men, for the lord Telramund had ridden out, and could not be there himself; and Thorin had come, for none better than he knew how to storm a cave, and how to defend it.

At last Hogni decided that they had climbed high enough; and all were grateful for the rest, and drank from their water-skins. From this vantage-point on the knees of the Thrihyrne, they could survey the slopes under which lay the vast complex of the glittering caves. The sky was now overcast; and in the distance, they could make out the great gash of Helm’s Deep, but the Hornburg was hidden from view.

Hogni unfolded a map he had made of the area, and proceeded to point out the various crevices and passages that led out of the caves into the mountains. “We’ve blocked off most of the sinkholes,” he said; “but some you’ll want to keep open for ventilation. We’ve put grates on those, so that the Orcs can’t sneak in; but you’ll have to check them regularly. Here, they’re all marked on the map.”

“Also,” said Andvari, “storms in the mountains could shift the rocks, and uncover more sinkholes. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep an eye open for that, too.”

“Now, the question is, what do you want to do with these?” asked Hogni, and pointed at the larger cave-mouths on the map. “We can block them, but then I doubt you’ll be able to unblock them by yourselves; but these are good escape routes, nice and manageable, and you may want to use them one day, if the castle is attacked the normal way, from the plains. Or we could wall them loosely, but that’ll make them less secure, and they’ll need to be manned.”

“What say you, my lord?” asked Helmwyn.

“I fear the decision rests with the lord Telramund,” said Thorin. “Can he spare men to guard these exits?”

“He will if you advise him to, my lord,” Helmwyn answered. Thorin had rolled up his shirtsleeves over his mighty forearms, and it was all she could do not to stare.

Thorin stroked his beard, and thought on the matter. “Then…I would counsel to wall all exits save two or three, which should be manned; but also to make sure that there are other points of passage inside the caves that can be held, should the gates fall.”

“Which would require yet more men,” said Grimwald, and wiped his brow.

“It’s the only sensible plan,” snapped Hogni. He unfolded a map of the caves and showed it to Thorin. “I’ve already thought about it: there are suitable places, here and here,” said he, stabbing at the map with his forefinger; “and here’s a little cave that makes a very passable guardroom.”

“Your people might like it underground, Master Dwarf,” said Grimwald; “but I doubt our lads would be best pleased about guarding damp, dark caves for days and weeks on end!”

“I fear it cannot be helped, Grimwald,” said the lady Helmwyn. “As long as there are Orcs prowling these mountains, we cannot leave the caves thus open and vulnerable. Besides,” she added, “on a day such as this, the prospect of a cool dark cave becomes rather appealing! Come, Master Hogni, show us these exits!”

The various cave-mouths lay some distance apart. But as they tramped from one to the other, the sky turned the colour of a bruise, dark and threatening, and the first heavy drops of rain began to fall. Hogni folded his maps and put them safely away.

“What about this one?” asked Andvari as they reached another, smaller opening. It had begun to rain in earnest, but they rather welcomed it.

“The passage seems rather steep,” said Helmwyn, peering down into the darkness. “I doubt able-bodied folk would be able to climb that, let alone old folk and children!”

“We would make steps, lady,” explained Andvari patiently.

“Even so…” said she, pondering. “I think it is best if only the easiest exits are left open. Of course, that will also depend on the routes inside the caves; and for that I shall trust your judg-”

There was a hiss of air, and a gasp; and one of the men crumpled to the ground. A black-feathered arrow was sticking out of his back.

“Orcs!” bellowed Thorin, and they drew their weapons, and spun around to face the slopes above them; but another man took an arrow in the leg, and fell to one knee.

“Only one archer,” said Thorin.

“Aye,” growled Grimwald; “and only one mailshirt between all of us!”

He went and stood before the lady Helmwyn to shield her with his body; and Thorin stood next to him.

Then they saw Andvari. A rage seemed to have come over him; for he had raced forward up the slope with a speed that belied his stocky build. He wove and dodged among the rocks, until he reached the Orc archer, and buried his great mattock in his skull. They watched in amazement as the Dwarf kept on smiting the body of his dead foe; but more Orcs were coming out form behind the rocks, and Hogni called to him to come back.

“We are outnumbered,” said Thorin. “My lady, get inside that cave!”

But Helmwyn had drawn Fearless and would not flee. “We will need every blade,” said she.

“Get inside!” shouted Thorin; and so commanding was his tone that Helmwyn did not protest a second time, but sheathed her sword and scrambled down into the rocky passage. She slid most of the way, and hurt her knee as she landed, for inside the cave it was so dark that she could see nothing at all. She fell into a roll, found her footing as best she could, drew her sword again, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

She heard the fighting outside, and hoped that the screams she heard were Orc-screams; but soon she heard something else: scraping and panting in the passage above. They were coming. Helmwyn squared her feet, sword at the ready, and fell upon the first Orc as he emerged from the passage, though he was hardly more than a moving shadow. She felled him, but there were two more behind him, and she was as good as blind; and things might have gone very ill for her, had Thorin not followed the Orcs down the passage and struck them down from behind.

His hand found hers in the darkness. “Are you unhurt, my lady?” he asked.

“I am, thanks to you,” she answered.

They waited on either side of the cave-mouth and listened for more Orcs, and for the sounds of battle up above; but soon the noise died down, and there was no sound but the rain, and they were left wondering which side had prevailed.

At last they heard Hogni’s voice calling down from above: “Are you all right down there?”

“Aye, we are!” Thorin called back. “What about you? Andvari? The men?”

“Andvari got hit on the head, but I think he’ll be all right,” said Hogni, and laughed. “I don’t think he’ll believe me when I tell him how he went berserk up there! He fell on the Orcs form behind, and I think he saved our hides!” But now Hogni’s voice was grim once more: “But two men fell, and several others are wounded.”

“Alas,” said Helmwyn, and called up the passage: “Grimwald?”

Grimwald’s head appeared next to Hogni’s, silhouetted against the pale daylight. “What of the wounded?” she called.

“I guess we can help them back to the horses, if they can hobble that far,” answered Grimwald; “and we’ll get them to the Hornburg by nightfall. As for the fallen…” He broke off. “We’ll have to cover them and bring them back tomorrow, although I hate leaving them among these foul Orcs!”

Helmwyn hung her head, and grieved for the fallen men. “But what of you, my lady?” Grimwald went on. “And you, my lord?”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to climb up by yourselves,” said Hogni, “but I have some rope in my saddle-bag, if you can wait that long.”

Helmwyn looked at Thorin in the dim light that filtered from above. “Can we not make our own way back through the caves? I would not have them waste time when they should be seeing to the wounded.”

“Aye, to be sure, my lady, we could,” said Thorin. He called to Hogni: “Have you a light for us? We might as well walk back from here!”

“Let me have a look!” Hogni called back, and his head vanished. He reappeared a few moments later, and tossed a leather-bound package into the cave. Thorin caught it, and opened it: inside were some candles, some fire-sticks, and Hogni’s map of the caves. “Thank you, my friend!” Thorin called; “you are a marvel!”

“It's Andvari you’ll need to thank,” answered Hogni; “he’s always got a couple of candles on him. But those won’t last you long,” he added. “If you’ll take my advice, you’ll make for that guardroom I showed you on the map; there’ll be more stuff there. Will you manage to find it?” Hogni asked, knowing that map-reading was not one of Thorin’s strong points.

“Yes, yes, of course I’ll manage,” said Thorin a little irritably. “Thank you,” he added.

Thorin studied the map in the dim shaft of light; and Helmwyn wiped her sword on the foul loincloth of one of the slain Orcs, for she did not wish to besmirch her scabbard with the black blood. And when, above, Grimwald called farewell, and made to help the wounded men back to the horses, Thorin lit one of the candles, and walked towards Helmwyn, and extended his hand to her.

“Come, my lady,” he said. “Shall we go?”

***

The tiny light of the candle lit their path only a few paces ahead, but beyond that it seemed to be swallowed up by the unfathomable darkness of the caves. The lord Thorin’s eyes might have been able to see further that hers, but Helmwyn caught only dim outlines of caverns and passages, of pillars and spikes of stone, and the occasional glint, as of crystals; and she began to feel a little oppressed by the great masses of rock that surrounded her.

She did not know how long they had walked, or how far. She trusted the lord Thorin, for after all he was a Dwarf, and must easily be able to find his bearings underground; but after a while, even she began to wonder whether they were not, in fact, lost. Her knee had become stiff, and swollen, and painful; but she said nothing, and followed in the lord Thorin’s footsteps, stepping cautiously so that she would not slip or stumble in the flickering yellow light.

The candles were going fast though, and Thorin was becoming increasingly bewildered, for it seemed to him (as it always did) that he had followed the map scrupulously; but now the caves looked nothing like what they ought to. He could hear the lady Helmwyn walked with a limp, and did not wish to put any more strain on her leg; and he was beginning to think that they would have to sit down and wait in the dark until they were rescued. But neither did he wish to lose face before the lady, or to have her wait in the cold and the dark; and so he resolved to press on with as much confidence as he could muster.

It was well that he did so, for they heard the trickle of water; and Thorin smiled, for there was one of the rivulets that fed into the great underground lake and the Deeping-Stream. They followed it, and soon enough they found the small chamber that Hogni had spoken of, the one that could be used as a guardroom.

Indeed, it seemed the little cave was being used already, for there were supplies there: candles and lanterns, and tools; but also food, coal, and a couple of horse-blankets. Thorin laughed. “I guess Andvari has made himself at home here. He did say something about wanting to sleep in the caves; but I did not think he meant it seriously until now!”

“It seems we are twice in Andvari’s debt, my lord,” said Helmwyn, examining the supplies. “Look! Here is dried meat, dry bread…apples…a flagon of mead…he has indeed made himself at home!”

Thorin busied himself with the small brazier, and soon he had the coals glowing red; for it was chill underground, and their clothes were damp from the rain. “Come, my lady,” said he; “sit, and warm yourself.”

“Is this wise, my lord?” Helmwyn said. “Ought we not to take more lights and press on?”

“You are not walking well, my lady; you may as well rest a little.”

“What if more Orcs have come into the caves?”

“If there were more Orcs, I think they would have fallen upon us already,” said Thorin.

Helmwyn was not entirely convinced, but she was grateful for the rest, and the warmth. And so they unbuckled their swords, and sat down on one of the horse blankets; and Thorin laid the other across her shoulders, for she was shivering, and they huddled by the brazier.

Thorin cut off little slivers from the block of dried meat, and Helmwyn watched him in the dim red glow of the coals. She loved to watch him work with his hands, for his face was ever calm and intent; but the day had been hot, and his shirt-collar was open, and now her eyes kept straying to the little hollow at the base of his throat. She took a draught of mead.

They shared the simple meal of bread and meat almost in silence; but the air of the cave was heavy with words unspoken. Helmwyn cut an apple in two, and gave half to Thorin. They passed the bottle of mead amongst themselves, and looked long into the red coals. Helmwyn was beginning to feel a little warmer; and she wondered whether the lord Thorin did not feel the cold as she did, or whether he were just being gallant.

Helmwyn was thankful for the lord Thorin’s strong, reassuring presence, for she was a little more shaken than she had thought at first. She had had a narrow escape from those Orcs, and she felt responsible for the death of the two men. She drank some more mead to steady herself, and felt it warm her; and she fought the urge to lean on Thorin’s shoulder.

“I believe you saved my life, my lord,” said she at last.

“Aye,” Thorin said, “perhaps I did.” He did not wish to think about how nearly he had lost her.

There was another silence.

“I blame myself,” Helmwyn told him. “For what happened today.”

“It was necessary to survey those exits,” said he. “Should you have commanded the men to wear their mail?”

“Perhaps I should have. It may have been hot, but we were foolish to go thus unprotected.”

Thorin looked at her. She wore only a flaxen shirt and a garment of supple leather, more a bodice than a cuirass. Thank Mahal she had not taken an arrow, he thought.

“I should have known better,” she went on. “I should have known that there might be storms, and that the Orcs might walk abroad under the cover of the clouds. Those men were my responsibility.”

“You cannot save everyone, my lady,” he said, and his voice was gentle.

“Aye, I know,” said Helmwyn, and sighed. “And yet I wish I could.”

“We must learn to accept the sacrifice of others,” said Thorin; “aye, even to command it. It is easy enough to sacrifice oneself. But to lead, or to send others to their deaths…that is the most bitter aspect of kingship.”

Helmwyn knew he was thinking of the battle of Moria. “I fear you are right, my lord,” said she. “And in truth, the King my father feels that way too; and the plight of the people lies heavy upon his shoulders. As indeed it weighs on mine. But what am I? I have neither rule nor authority; I merely meddle, and meddling I play with people’s lives.”

“But your ‘meddling’ has been for the good of the Mark, my lady,” said Thorin; “and your burdens are those of a queen.”

Helmwyn gave a bitter laugh, and shook her head. “I am no queen, my lord.”

“Then never was there lady more worthy of the title,” said Thorin. “Indeed, were I a king, and had I but a kingdom to call my own, I would ask none other but you to be queen of it.”

Helmwyn caught her breath. She could not believe what she had just heard. Her heart was suddenly filled with a wild hope, but also with a fear that those words had been mere courtesy.

“What mean you, my lord?” she asked him.

Thorin gazed at her from under his black brows. “Do you not know?”

She looked into his eyes, which blazed all the more fiercely now that he had laid his heart bare before her.

“Indeed I do not,” said she; for in truth she did not know for sure, and feared to guess wrong. “Will you not tell me?”

“My lady, I…” Thorin began. He opened his mouth, and hesitated, and floundered, and looked away. “I fear I have not the words,” he said at last.

This was as close as the stern, proud Dwarf would ever come to a declaration of love. Helmwyn was astounded, and knew not what to say. And so she spoke not; but instead she leaned over, and took his face in her hands, and gently pressed her lips to his.


	34. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Considering the amazing series of coincidences and misunderstandings that arose that night, the author felt it necessary to provide a blow-by-blow account of events (as it were), and to elucidate some of the significant cultural differences between Dwarves and humans in helpful footnotes.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 33**

 

Thorin had not expected this. (1)

In truth, he knew not what he had expected; but certainly not this. His heart raced, and for a breathless moment he was at a loss, and knew not what to do; and Helmwyn feared she had made a terrible mistake.

But their faces hovered not an inch apart, and their breath mingled, and Thorin raised his fingertips to Helmwyn’s cheek; and tentatively she kissed him again, and tentatively he matched the rhythm and pressure of her lips, and returned her kiss. The lady’s lips were warm and soft, and tasted of mead and apples. Thorin closed his eyes, and held her beloved head,and marvelled at this speech without words; but no more words were needed.

The moment lengthened, and slowly Thorin eased into the kiss; and Helmwyn drew closer, and he clasped her in his arms at last. He could feel her living, beating heart hammering against her ribs as he held her; and his own heart swelled with joy, for to him, all this could mean only one thing: an unequivocal _YES_.

They twined their fingers in each other’s hair, and the kiss deepened. Thorin was a little flustered at first (2), but he soon gave in to the lingering sweetness of it; and he felt an unknown stirring in his loins. Helmwyn stroked the nape of his neck, and his throat, and his collarbone; and when she slipped her hand inside his shirt, he did not stop her. But then she laid her hand on his heart; and suddenly Thorin broke off the kiss, and looked deep into her eyes.

Helmwyn feared for a moment that she had been too bold. But Thorin was deeply moved, for this gesture was counted among his own kind as a token of love and troth, and accompanied the marriage-vows. He held her hand to his breast, and stroked her face, and laid his own hand upon her bosom. Helmwyn knew nothing of dwarven custom, yet she sensed the solemnity of the moment; and in any case, the meaning of such a gesture was plain enough. She held Thorin’s gaze, and pressed his hand to her breast, and gently rested her brow against his. They remained thus for a long, fervent while. (3)

They threw their arms around each other, and held each other tight. Thorin pressed his face against Helmwyn’s throat, and Helmwyn buried her face in Thorin’s hair; and they knew with absolute surety that had found each other at long last. But long they could not stay thus, for they were sitting awkwardly; and so Helmwyn sat astride Thorin’s lap. The pain in her knee made her wince; but she was past caring about that now.

Things might have gone differently had Helmwyn been a maiden; but she had been wed, and her body made its own demands, and pressed itself against his. As for Thorin, bewildered though he was, he could guess well enough where this was leading, for he sensed her desire; and indeed he sensed his own. Helmwyn was kissing him again, and now her kisses had a hunger to them, and a bite. Thorin felt a fire in his blood; but he was utterly out of his depth, and feared his own clumsiness. But the lady seemed to know what she was doing; and so he decided he would trust her, and willingly surrendered to her. After all, he now knew that she loved him; and if she wished them to be trothplighted that very night, so be it, for both love and honour would be satisfied. (4)

Helmwyn noticed that Thorin seemed a little overwhelmed, for he merely sat with his hands on her waist, but dared hardly _do_ anything. And so she guided his hands, and began to unfasten her bodice, and encouraged him to continue; but then she had to help him, for he fumbled with the laces. Helmwyn began to wonder in earnest whether it were love and respect that stopped him, or whether he might in fact never have done this before. And so she smoothed Thorin’s dark curls away from his face, and kissed his brow, and his eyelids, and his temples, with a gentleness she did not know she possessed.

Her tenderness must have soothed him, for he did not protest when she pulled his shirt over his head, and laid her hand on his heart once more. Thorin felt strangely vulnerable; but when she beheld him, Helmwyn marvelled at Thorin, for, of course, he had the body of a blacksmith, broad and powerful. She half-saw runes and markings inked on his left shoulder, though she could not make them out in the dim light; and as she ran her hands over his body, she felt that there were scars on him, too. Helmwyn’s heart tightened; and she gazed into Thorin’s eyes, and thought her heart would break for too much love.

She hastily cast off her garments; and Thorin pulled her close, and folded her in his strong arms, and clasped her to his mighty chest. He felt her small round breasts press against his skin, and part of him wondered whether he were bruising her; but Helmwyn smiled, for she loved a blacksmith, and rejoiced in the thought that he could crush her in his embrace. But Thorin’s touch was exceedingly gentle, and he reached up, and undid her braids, and spread her rippling hair over her bare shoulders; and once again Helmwyn rested her forehead against his.

It seemed to both of them that now, heart to heart and brow to brow, they finally understood each other; and there would be no more questions and no more doubts, for they belonged together. And so Helmwyn kissed Thorin, and pulled him down on top of her, and wrapped her slender arms around him; and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling on the floor of the cave.

***

Helmwyn gasped.

Thorin froze at once. “Am I hurting you?” he asked anxiously.

“Nay,” she breathed. “Nay. Quite the reverse.”

“I shall stop if you like -”

“Nay, do not stop, I beg you -”

***

Afterwards, they lay entwined, and gazed long into each other’s eyes. Helmwyn stroked Thorin’s beard; and he smiled, for although that was also considered very intimate among Dwarves, that was of no consequence now.

He held her close, and wrapped the spare blanket around her against the chill of the cave; but to Thorin, their very presence in this cave was a blessing, and a sign that Mahal smiled upon their union. And Helmwyn laid her head upon his broad chest, and listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

She had only meant to kiss the lord Thorin. But she had also known that this night in the cave was all that they could ever hope to have; and grief and love together had made her reckless. She had wanted to draw out the sweetness of their embrace as far as he was willing; but he had followed her lead, and had not stopped her, and she could not stop herself. It occurred to Helmwyn that she had been rash, and that she might have to bear the consequences of her rashness; but in that moment, she could not bring herself to regret what she had done.

He had been gentle, almost timid, which amazed her in one so grim and commanding. But she had known bliss; and now, in the warmth of Thorin’s strong arms, Helmwyn felt truly safe for the first time she could remember. She felt (as is usual in such circumstances) as though her entire life had been leading her to this moment, as though she had come home at last.

But she knew that they would soon be sundered; and now that thought had become unendurable. Tears welled up in her eyes unbidden, and began to flow silently. But Thorin felt her hot tears on his skin; and he embraced her, and kissed her eyelids.

“Why do you weep, my love?” he asked; and he felt a sudden fear that there had been a terrible misunderstanding after all.

“My heart overflows, my lord,” said Helmwyn, “for it cannot contain so much love, nor a happiness so great. But I could not bear to be parted from you; and I fear this brief happiness shall be bought with much sorrow.”

Thorin looked gravely into her eyes before answering. “Aye, with sorrow, that may be; but never with shame. I hold true to my word, Helmwyn, Brytta’s daughter. I will wed with you in the eyes of Dwarves and Men, and call you wife, and queen.” He gently took her hand, and placed it on his heart. “But as for me, I hold myself wed to you already, and shall take no other as long as I shall live.”

Helmwyn gazed at him in silence as the solemnity of his words sank in; and it began to dawn on her what their lovemaking had meant to Thorin. He had spoken in earnest; and he seemed sure that a way could be found, that they could indeed have a future together. She had not expected this; but her despair turned to hope and joy, and she held his hand to her breast and replied: “And I will wed with you, Thorin Thráinsson, in the eyes of Dwarves and Men; and I shall call you husband, and king. I bind my life to yours. I will dwell with you, and wherever you are, that place shall I call home.”

Thorin clasped her to his heart, and she curled against him, desperately willing it all to come true; and after a while, he began softly chanting in the dwarvish tongue. Helmwyn caught her breath, for she felt his deep voice resonate in his chest; and though he sang barely above a whisper, the little cave was filled with echoes of his song. She knew not whether this were lullaby, or a love-song, or solemn marriage-vows; but she huddled closer still, and closed her eyes, and let Thorin’s voice soothe her fears.

***

Helmwyn was drifting off to sleep, and though Thorin knew they could not tarry long, he let her rest for a little while; and he held her close, and stroked her hair, and listened to her quiet breathing. There was a little frown on her brow, and it broke his heart so see her thus careworn even as she slept. But after some minutes he smoothed her brow, and kissed it, and spoke to her gently: “We must rise, my love, for they will come looking for us.” She stirred, and opened her eyes, and her only answer was to kiss him. They made love once again, with rather more abandon this time; and it was all they could do not to cry out.

They clung to each other, and could not bring themselves to let go; for once the world swept in on them once more, who knew when they could be so close again? But at last, with a great effort of will, Helmwyn wrenched herself from Thorin’s arms, and began to search among the discarded garments for her breeches. They dressed in silence, but not without stopping to embrace tenderly, or exchange a lingering kiss. When at last they were fully clad, and had girded themselves with their weapons, Thorin drew Helmwyn close, and she rested her brow against his; and they laid a hand on each other’s heart, as a silent renewal of their troth.

They took torches from the store that was in the cave, and lit them, and set off towards the entrance of the caves, reluctant though they were to leave the place that had sheltered their love. But they left not too soon; for after only a few minutes’ journey they saw the light of more torches in the distance, and heard the sound of voices. The voices echoed through the rocky chambers, but Thorin and Helmwyn could hear them calling their names; and as they drew closer, they saw a group of men walking towards them, armed to the teeth, and with them were Balin and Dwalin.

“There you are, Thorin, my lad!” called Balin, and his joy and relief were plain to see. “We were beginning to fear that something had happened to you. What took you so long?”

“We got lost,” rumbled Thorin, for they were likely enough to believe that.

Balin began to tell them how Grimwald had returned to the Hornburg with wounded men, and raised the alarm. But it had taken him and his men a long time to reach the Hornburg, for their horses had bolted; and when he learned that Thorin and Helmwyn had not yet arrived there, Grimwald had been concerned. He feared that Orcs might have followed them into the caves, and ambushed them; and a search party had been sent out at once.

Helmwyn felt rather self-conscious, for her hair was in disarray, and her thighs were uncomfortably slick; and she feared that everyone would be able to read the events of the night on her face. So she said nothing as the others walked and talked, and tried not to draw attention to herself.

“Are you all right, lass?” Dwalin asked her.

Helmwyn was startled. “W-why do you ask?”

“Well, you’re limping, that’s why,” said Dwalin, oblivious to Helmwyn’s dishevelled appearance.

“Oh, that,” said Helmwyn, relieved. “I do not think it is anything much. I shall have it looked at when we get back.”

She had spoken lightly; but the swelling in her knee had not abated, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to walk. Before long, she had to lean on Dwalin for support, all the way from the caves down to the Hornburg. Thorin wished that she could rather have leant on him, for he felt that this role was now his by right; but of course there was no saying that aloud.

It was not yet dawn when they reached the Hornburg at last; and Helmwyn was grateful that none would see her thus in broad daylight. She struggled up the steps to the Keep, and hobbled down the causeway into the camp; and there they found Grimwald. He looked weary, but his face brightened when he saw that the lady and the lord Thorin were alive. “Forgive me if I caused you any anxiety,” Helmwyn told him. “I fear it was I who slowed us down, for I needed to rest my knee. But tell me, how fare the wounded?”.

“We’ve patched them up as best we could, lady, and now they’re resting,” said Grimwald. “If those Orc-weapons weren’t poisoned, and the wounds don’t fester, they should make it through.”

“That is well,” said she. “I thank you, Grimwald, for all you have done! I shall go now and see the men-“

“Let them rest, lass,” said Dwalin; “you can see them later on. If I were you, I’d get that knee of yours seen to, and then I’d go and get some shut-eye. You too, Thorin. When dawn comes, all hell will break loose; and I guess we’ll have to go jogging up into the mountains again quick enough.” Helmwyn and Thorin exchanged a worried look, but said nothing. “I’m certainly going to have a kip,” Dwalin went on; “I’ve been up all night worrying about you lot. I don’t suppose you two got any sleep?”

There was an awkward silence from Thorin, but Helmwyn rallied magnificently.

“Well no, we did not. We did stop at the guardroom; but the lord Thorin was keeping watch for Orcs, and I was uneasy and could not rest. I fear I am not used to caves,” she said. Thorin had to admire her aplomb.

He was reluctant to let her go; and he shuffled around awkwardly, for he wanted to kiss or touch her somehow, but could not, not in front of everyone. He gave her a pleading look from beneath those dark lashes of his; and Helmwyn smiled at him, for in that moment, she thought that he looked almost like a little boy. 

“Rest now, my lord,” she told him. “We shall meet again anon, and then we shall talk more, and I shall thank you as I should for defending me, and finding a way for us through the caves. But now let us rest, for we both are weary with long waking!” And with that Helmwyn turned, still smiling, and limped away through the camp; but she kept glancing over her shoulder at Thorin, and his eyes lingered on her as she went.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Kissing does not play the same part in the emotional vocabulary of Dwarves as it does for humans. It is something which, if at all, is practised very much in private, by married couples, and only newly-married and enthusiastic ones at that (after a while, most Dwarves tend to find that the beards get in the way of the more exotic practices). So to understand the effect Helmwyn’s kiss had on Thorin, try thinking of it like this: it’s as if someone you really, really fancy were to put their hand down your trousers on a first date. Not necessarily unwelcome, but rather startling.
> 
> (2) That would be the Dwarf equivalent of…oh, never mind. Let’s just say it’s pretty intimate.
> 
> (3) Now, this happened to be the equivalent of kissing in dwarven culture. It can convey a variety of nuances, and is performed between lovers, family members and friends. It is, of course, a variation on the traditional dwarven greeting, or head-butt, only toned down and considered suitable for the ladies.
> 
> (4) Thorin had a rather Dwarf-centred view of the world, and naturally assumed that, by an amazing coincidence, the marriage-customs of the Mark just happened to be the same as the Dwarves’ in this respect: i.e., sexual intercourse equals a de facto betrothal (See The Dwarrow Scholar’s fascinating conjectures about Dwarf marital law at dwarrowscholar dot mymiddleearth dot com).


	35. Chapter 34

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 34**

 

Helmwyn was light-headed with lack of sleep and with love, and had some difficulty believing that all that had passed between the lord Thorin and herself that night had truly been real.

She commandeered a tent, and sent for water, and bandages; and when asked whether she needed the healer, she replied very emphatically that she would manage on her own.

_He loved her and wanted her for his wife, and all the unnecessary anguish of the past few weeks vanished like mist in the morning sun._

But nay – Helmwyn corrected herself. Not all of it. There had been talk of his going up into the mountains again. But now that they had… come to an understanding, she hoped that she would be able to talk him out of it.

_She thought of his eyes, and his voice, and his solemn words._

Water and bandages were brought, and Helmwyn asked not to be disturbed; and when she was alone, she stripped off her boots and breeches, and washed, and bound her knee as tightly as she could.

_She thought of his strong arms, and his warmth, and his weight, and his gentle fumbling, and wondered whether she were blushing._

She dressed again, grabbed a spare blanket and went to curl up in a corner of the tent; and she clutched the sword Fearless to her breast, and slept like a stone.

***

Thorin found that he could not sleep; but if he could not be with the lady, he preferred to be alone. So he went and stood on the Deeping-Wall, and looked out onto the torch-lit camp below, and into the night beyond, and felt the wind stir his hair.

He had said nothing of their betrothal to the others - not because he thought it was wrong or shameful, certainly. But such a great deal had happened in such little time that he needed a while to come to terms with it himself. To tell the truth, Thorin was in a strange mood, for he felt at once strong, and vulnerable.

On the one hand, he was elated, and his heart swelled with pride, for the lady, so fair and brave, had pledged herself to him. She was willing to leave the Mark for his sake; and in time she would come to him, and dwell with him in the Blue Mountains. She would sit beside him, and together they would rule; and his people would thrive, and the pride of his house would be restored.

But on the other hand, on another, more intimate level, Thorin was shaken to the core.

To be sure, he had been vaguely aware of the…mechanics of lovemaking; but he had been quite unprepared for the imperious sweetness of it. He never would have imagined that another’s closeness, another’s warmth, another’s skin against his own, could have such compelling power. Never before had anyone touched him thus (1); and Thorin felt that he had laid himself bare before the lady in more ways than one. But her tenderness had bound glowing bonds about his heart, and these bonds far outlasted the aching pleasure of their embrace, though assuredly that had been very great.

He would announce the betrothal in due time, of course he would. But for now he wished to keep his secret hidden from the prying eyes of the world, like one who has found some precious jewel. Perhaps Thorin was feeling superstitious. He would talk to the lady, and try to prevail upon her not to ride out anymore; for surely now he had the right to ask, and surely now she would relent.

Thorin stood on the Wall, and watched the eastern sky grow pale, turning first a pearly grey, then a clear blue, dappled with rosy clouds. He breathed in deep, filling his lungs with the cool morning air, and looked out upon the wide plains of the Westfold; and though he had not slept, his mind was sharp and his senses keen. But in his heart, he kept thinking of the dim little cave behind Helm’s Deep, and all that had passed therein; and he scanned the camp below, and wondered in which tent his lady slept.

***

All hell did not break loose with the coming of the new day; but there was a restlessness about the camp, and a need for purposeful action. Heavily armed men were sent to bring back the bodies of their fallen companions; and Helmwyn, the Dwarves, and the captains present gathered to discuss what ought to be done.

They spoke at first of a punitive expedition into the mountains; but in the end it was decided that the more urgent task was to secure the caves and to wall their exits. That task was pressing, for harvest-time would soon be upon them; and the help of every Dwarf would be needed to make fast the caves before that, all the more so since Andvari had been injured. Thus it was agreed that Orc-hunts in the mountains could wait - much to Helmwyn’s relief.

Grimwald then took her to see the wounded men, and Thorin went with them, to see how Andvari fared; but while Hogni went to organise teams of stonemasons, Balin pulled Dwalin to one side and muttered:

“He must’ve plucked up his courage and spoken to her.”

Dwalin was nonplussed, and looked back over his shoulder to where Thorin had gone. “How can you tell?”

“It’s the way they’re looking at each other,” whispered Balin.

“They’re always looking at each other,” said Dwalin.

“Yes, but now they’re looking at each other _at the same time_.”

Dwalin considered this. “Fair enough.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“Well, ‘s hardly surprising, if you ask me,” said Dwalin. “Those caves are lovely. If it was me wanting to, you know, declare my feelings for someone, I couldn’t wish for a better spot.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Balin.

He consoled himself with the thought that, at least, Thorin had not yet formally proposed to the young lady. He couldn’t have. He would have mentioned it if he had. In fact, Balin was confident that before making such an important decision, Thorin was bound to consult with him first. Thorin may have been keeping to himself of late, and generally behaving like an infatuated sixty-year-old; but Balin knew that, when it came down to it, he could always be depended upon to act…dynastically.

Good. He would have a word with the lad, and talk some sense into him. Soon.

***

That evening at Lindburg the company was animated. Andvari, who had been brought thither so that he might rest, was feted like a hero on account of his bandaged head; and he gave an epic blow-by-blow account of the Orc attack, earning cheers and praise. Thorin had gone outside to smoke his pipe, for the evening was mild, and he would find no peace and quiet within the hall. But Helmwyn was subdued, and sipped quietly at her mead; and when asked what was the matter, she said it was because men had been killed. And she felt ashamed, for that was only partly true.

At last she rose silently, and stepped outside; and Balin nudged his brother, and nodded his head towards the door, and went after her. Dwalin followed reluctantly.

Outside it was nearly dark, and only a pale green light lingered in the western sky; but the first stars shone bright, and a breeze sighed in the leaves of the linden tree. Beneath the shelter of its boughs, Helmwyn saw a tiny red glow; and her heart leapt, and she walked towards the tree, a slender shape in the dusk.

Balin and Dwalin stood by the door of the hall, and heard the sounds of the merry gathering inside; but their night-keen eyes saw the red glow go out, and two shapes embracing under the linden tree.

“So they _do_ have an understanding. Oh dear,” said Balin, and shook his head sadly.

“I think they’re quite sweet together, actually,” said Dwalin; for he loved the lord Thorin and thought well of the lady Helmwyn, and was glad for them.

“You do realise that this means trouble, don’t you?” said Balin; and he peered into the gathering dark, and it seemed to him that the lovers were locked in a passionate kiss. He blushed and looked away.

“You know, brother,” Dwalin answered, “I reckon that if trouble comes, it will come soon enough; but we should let them be happy for a little while.”

Balin sighed. “I don't suppose anyone could have done anything to prevent it.”

“It won’t make much difference in the end,” said Dwalin. “Leave him alone.”

Balin wondered at his brother’s mixture of compassion and fatalism, and found his philosophical insights rather unsettling. But Balin was a worrier by nature, and he knew this would end badly. They both did. There would be shouting, and hard words, and stiff necks, and some spectacular rows; for they knew their protagonists well. Thorin against Thráin, Dís, and the dwarven elders. Mahal help us. There would be tears, and bitterness, and broken hearts, too.

Balin dimly saw that Thorin and Helmwyn stood now brow to brow, and his heart was filled with pity for them both. “Very well, brother,” he said to Dwalin; “let’s leave them alone for now.” And with that they went back inside.

***

Thorin and Helmwyn stood entwined under the linden tree, and whispered the fond nonsense of young lovers everywhere.

That is to say, they tried. But Thorin was a Dwarf, and unpractised at love-talk; yet he felt compelled to tell his lady all that he had wished to tell her in the past few weeks, all that he wished he could have told her that night in the cave. He wound a lock of her hair around his finger, while he struggled with the words.

“Winter was upon me, lady,” he told her at last. “But you are the gentle spring, and the glad summer, and your warmth has thawed the ice.”

Helmwyn was moved, for she thought of herself rather as brooding and cold, and she marvelled that the lord Thorin should see her thus.

“My heart was a dark and desolate cavern,” he went on. “And behold! You blaze now therein like a bright jewel, and there is light in the dark places.”

Helmwyn was a little abashed to hear him speak thus; for she was a shieldmaiden, and almost as ill at ease with sentiment as Thorin was.

“If your heart is a cave, does that make you a mountain?” she quipped.

“That would be fitting,” said he; “for in my tongue, the word for ‘people’ and the word for ‘mountains’ are one and the same.” (2)

It was dim under the linden tree; yet Helmwyn could see how painfully earnest Thorin looked. She smoothed his dark hair away from his face, and smiled fondly. “Aye, that you are,” said she. “A lonely mountain, strong and majestic, with stormclouds about your brow.” And she kissed his forehead and his temples, as though it were his troubled mind she meant to soothe with her kisses.

Thorin pulled her close, and they held each other tight; and he pressed his face against the lady’s throat, as he had so often desired to do. He closed his eyes. His fingers were in her hair, and his lips on her pulse; and she felt real, and alive. He tried not to think of how fragile and short-lived she was. He tried not to think that he might yet lose her.

“I honour you, and cherish you, and prize you above all else,” he whispered against her throat; “for there is naught more precious to me in this darkling world than your precious life.”

Helmwyn felt a lump in her throat, and buried her face deeper in Thorin’s great dark mane.

She loved him fiercely. He had the strength, and courage, and authority, and will, and the sheer _presence_ of ten men. He bore a heavy burden on those broad shoulders of his; and he bore it with grim fatalism, aye, but also with a dignity that amazed her. She found it hard to believe that Thorin’s great heart, so full of care and grief and long bitterness, should still have some space left in it for her; and yet he loved her with the absolute surety that he showed about everything else.

But now it was she who struggled to find words of her own. Helmwyn did not wish to use the trite language of songs; and yet she had to say something. Words seemed important to him.

She touched her brow to his. “I will cleave to you, my love, whatever may befall,” said she at last, and kissed him. She could not put into words how she felt about the lord Thorin. (3)

***

It began to be murmured among the men that the lady Helmwyn was to be betrothed to the Dwarf prince, and that there would be an alliance between their two peoples. This was welcome news to the men; and they thought it neither strange nor unnatural. After all, a prince was a prince; and they all knew the lord Thorin as a stout warrior and a capable leader, and the nobility of his bearing had all but made them forget his race.

None knew whence this rumour had sprung, for there had been no announcement of any kind; and Thorin and Helmwyn’s demeanour hardly warranted such tales, for they did not flaunt their love. But neither did they conceal it altogether; and often they could be seen walking together around Lindburg, or standing on the Deeping-Wall side by side. They did not kiss or touch, but those who knew them could see that a change had come over them, in their bearing, and their glances, and the way they stood and walked side by side, imperceptibly closer. And those who saw them guessed that they wished to remain alone together, and let tem be.

Not that they ever were truly alone. They became keenly aware of the fact that wherever they went, there were always watchers about them: soldiers and workers at Helm’s Deep, folk going about their business at Lindburg; to say nothing of the other Dwarves. Balin in particular always seemed to be hovering nearby.

The Orcs meanwhile did not remain idle; and the patrols reported that they had become bolder and more savage, and were banding together, and raiding in larger groups. Most likely, word of the Dwarves’ attacks on their hiding-places in the mountains had spread; but perhaps they also guessed that something else was afoot.

Harvesting of the first crops had begun, and part of the harvest was being brought to Lindburg, and thence to Helm’s Deep, for safekeeping. Riders were sent to escort the grain, and Helmwyn went with them; and when Thorin spoke to her of his concern, she told him that and _éored_ would always have the advantage on the plains, and that he ought not to fear for her.

Thorin’s instinct bade him protect the lady; but as he knew her, he knew also that she did not want protection, however much he thought she might need it. But another thing that he _did_ know she needed was freedom, and support; and he tried to give her that, though it was a struggle for him to let her go. He stopped Helmwyn as she was about to ride out; and he took her by the hand, and led her to an empty stall in the stables, where it was very dim, and they could hope to pass unseen for a few moments. She was fully armoured, but he found an inch of bare skin behind her ear, and kissed it.

“You know I fear for your safety,” he said.

“I know,” answered she. “And you know honour and duty command me to go.”

“I know. But what would love bid you do?”

“Love bids me ask you not to venture into the mountains again.”

“If you command me, I will stay.”

“I cannot command you, my lord. That decision is yours to make.”

Thorin sighed, and Helmwyn gently laid her brow against his.

“Such is ever the fate of lovers in wartime,” said she.

“Will this war ever end, I wonder?”

“It will end for me. The moment you ask it, my lord, I shall leave this land and follow you wherever you may lead me. But until that time, I must serve this land still.”

She stroked his beard; but Thorin framed her face in his hands and kissed her.

“Be safe, my love,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Dwarves weren’t very tactile people at the best of times.
> 
> (2) ‘Abad’, according to The Dwarrow Scholar.
> 
> (3) And whether or not Thorin and Helmwyn made love up against the linden tree that night, that, dear reader, is for you to imagine. It would be reckless of course, but I wouldn’t put it past them.


	36. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This week, boys and girls, I thought I’d let our protagonists enjoy their rural idyll a bit. Here be fluff! Of course, the idyll is not entirely angst-free; after all, this is Thorin Oakenshield we’re talking about.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 35**

 

Thorin and Helmwyn sat side by side under the linden tree, and looked out on the golden afternoon. Their hands were linked in the grass, where they hoped none could see. They twined and untwined their fingers slowly; and Thorin stroked the lady’s palm, and felt that she had little callouses from holding a sword. He smiled.

“I suppose we have the Orcs to thank for this,” he mused aloud.

“What mean you?” Helmwyn asked.

“Had it not been for that night in the cave…I do not know if I would ever have dared to speak to you. How I dreaded that moment!”

“But my lord…what did you fear? Did you not guess my love for you? Was it not plain enough?”

“I see that now. But even though I hoped you might…care about me, I feared you would not leave the Mark for my sake.”

Helmwyn thought about that. “Until recently you would have been right,” she said. “Had anyone told me a few weeks ago that I would be willing to hang up my sword, and relinquish my duty, and leave my beloved Riddermark in these troubled times, I should not have believed it. But now I have chosen a greater love, and a greater duty.”

Thorin gazed at her wistfully. “You know what I am, lady.”

“You are the heir of Durin.”

“Aye, that I may be; but I can promise you little, and give you even less.”

“Did I not say I would cleave to you, Thorin Thráinsson? I hold true to my word. I will share your bed, and bear your children, and remain by your side for all the days of my life.”

Thorin was moved by her words. He was well aware what a sacrifice it would be for her to leave the Mark.

“But you are so deeply rooted in the soil of this land,” said he. “If you leave it, will you not wither?”

Helmwyn laughed. “My lord, I am no tree! I shall go whither my heart leads me, and that is yours.”

“And are you free to follow it?”

“None shall stop me.” And with that she leaned over and kissed him. Thorin blushed; and Helmwyn smiled to see him blush. “But is it not you, rather, who are bound by law and custom to wed one of your own kind?” she asked him, in earnest now.

Thorin frowned. “Aye, there may be difficulties,” answered he, “but none that cannot be overcome; for we are bound already, and shall not be sundered. I will let nothing, and no-one, stand between us; I have sworn it. Nay; the greatest delay that I foresee will be the labour on our halls in the Blue Mountains.”

“But why should that prove a delay?”

“The halls are barely inhabitable; and until they are, and the mines give better yield, my people must labour still in the homesteads of Men – and so must I.”

Helmwyn looked gravely at him. “I care not whether you sit in majesty in halls of stone, or whether you labour in the forge; I would be with you.”

“My lady, I would not have you be the wife of a travelling blacksmith; I would not inflict such hardship upon you.”

“I am used to sleeping under the open sky, my lord.”

“My love, I beg you… Let us wait until my halls are finished. It is dwarven custom. It would be dishonourable to offer you anything less.”

Helmwyn was unconvinced. “And how long will _that_ take?”

“Some years, certainly. A ten-year betrothal is not unusual among my people…”

Helmwyn’s heart sank. Thorin saw her dismay even as he spoke.

“My lord…,” said Helmwyn, “ _I_ must beg you to remember that my people are short-lived! If you wish me to give you heirs, I fear we _must_ wed before I am withered and barren!”

“So soon?” said Thorin, aghast. He had not realised that her youth would be _that_ brief. He wound a lock of her hair around his fingers, and sighed.

“We shall have to build those halls faster, then.”

***

Balin was looking for Thorin. He had slipped away during the midday meal; but now it was time to resume work, and Balin tramped through the camp, searching for him.

He found him on the edge of the training-grounds, watching the sparring. Among the fighters was the young lady, of course; her knee no longer troubled her, and she fought with poise and fluency. It seemed to Balin that Thorin watched her with pride -

\- pride, and a rather proprietorial air, Balin thought.

He walked up to his prince, and stood nonchalantly next to him; but then he noticed a golden hair caught in Thorin’s beard. Right, he thought. That’s it. Enough is enough. This was getting embarrassing. Time to put an end to this.

“Look, Thorin, my lad,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About you, and the young lady.”

Thorin smiled. “I was wondering when you’d ask,” he said. His eyes did not leave the lady. “Look at her, Balin! Such a queen will be the pride of my house! And all other folk shall marvel that a Dwarf could win a lady so rare.”

Balin stared at Thorin, aghast. He tried to reason with him: “But Thorin! She is no Dwarf! Doesn’t that strike you as…a little inconvenient?”

Thorin shrugged. “Inconvenient, perhaps, but not insurmountable. Surely there must be a precedent?”

“No,” said Balin very firmly. “There isn’t.”

But Thorin grinned widely. “Then we shall make a precedent!” He had the look of absolute surety that Balin had so dreaded.

“Don't you think it is a bit rash?” asked Balin.

“Rash?” Thorin scoffed. “Do you suggest we compare the lady with a number of well-born Dwarf-maids, to judge who is the most eligible? You may as well spare yourself the trouble; for there is none other like her.”

“ _And_ she has been wed already!” Balin objected.

Thorin frowned, and brushed that away irritably. “The laws of Men are different,” he growled.

Balin felt that as legal arguments went, this was extremely feeble. He was going to protest further, but Thorin cut him off:

“Balin - it is done. We have plighted our troth, and sworn solemn oaths. We are bound by an irrevocable bond,” said Thorin, and looked pointedly at Balin.

The penny dropped at last, and Balin stared at Thorin, dumbfounded. “Durin’s beard!” he croaked. “You…you haven’t- ?”

He could not put words on the horrific notion; but Thorin beamed at him, and clapped him on the shoulders, and said:

“Rejoice, my friend! I am sure you will find a way. If anyone can arrange this, it is you! I have every confidence in you.”

Balin had been right: once Thorin’s mind was made up, there was no changing it.

***

Dwalin found his brother huddling in the guardroom a little later. He had helped himself to Andvari’s secret stash of strong drink, and was still shaking like a leaf.

“Oh dear,” Dwalin chuckled, “what’s the matter now? Caught them kissing, have you?”

“Oh, brother! It’s worse than you could possibly imagine!”

“Holding hands, were they?”

“It’s not funny!” Balin snapped. “How was I to imagine that the Heir of Durin would forget himself so completely! A few weeks in horse-country, that’s all it took. I thought the lad might still have some sense left, but no; leave them alone in a cave - _this_ cave! - for a couple of hours and this is what happens! And do you think he’s sorry? Not at all! He means to wed the lass! He turns to me, majestic as you please, and says ‘Balin – make it so!’ To _me_! Curse the stiff necks of the line of Durin! Thráin will have my beard for this!”

Dwalin waited until Balin had finished.

“Well, are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“Going to make it happen?”

Balin sighed, and seemed altogether defeated. “I honestly can’t see how. And yet it seems I’ve got no choice. Sweet Mahal,” Balin wailed. “What are we going to _do_?”

Dwalin patted him ineffectually on he back.

***

Thorin would sit beneath the linden tree every evening, ostensibly to smoke, although his pipe-weed had now run out; and Helmwyn would come and sit beside him, ostensibly because she had often done so, even before she loved him. Such trysts were sweet, but they were not enough; and Thorin and Helmwyn were faced with the same problem as young lovers everywhere.

But Helmwyn had spent much of her childhood in Lindburg, and knew the estate well; and she led Thorin to secluded spots where they could be quite alone and undisturbed. She mused on the fact that she had liked to hide away in those places as a child, and daydream, and practice with her wooden sword; and now those were the very places where she hid away with the lord Thorin. She wondered what that meant, if anything.

Once they rode out to a fair waterfall that lay upstream of Lindburg; and there they bathed in the shallow pool, and dried themselves in the sun, and made love in the soft grass. It was reckless, and they both knew it; for folk might well have seen them (other young lovers seeking out the self same spot, for instance). And had Orcs assaulted them, they would have been defenceless. But they were in love, and the sun was warm, and they cared not.

They lay in the grass, and gazed long at each other, and sought to learn every detail of each other’s body. They had only seen each other by the dim light of the brazier in the cave; but now they beheld each other in bright daylight, and delighted in what they saw.

Thorin had missed the lady’s nakedness, and the feel of her skin against his own. To be sure, Helmwyn looked very different from anything he had been taught to think of as womanly. She was slender and lithe, with small breasts and taut little muscles under velvety skin; and she had no more on her cheeks than a fine golden down. And yet Thorin thought her beautiful, and shapely; and he touched her sweet beardless chin, and saw that her grey eyes sparkled with joy.

Helmwyn twined her fingers through the hairs that covered Thorin’s mighty chest, and rested her hand on his heart. Everything about him was broad and powerful, yet there was nothing brutish about him; for his movements had a manly grace to them, and his bearing was noble, and his touch gentle. Never had any man seemed to her so handsome, or so lordly. She sometimes had to remind herself that he was a Dwarf, and not one of her own race; and she stroked his beard, and his thick dark brows, and his delightful dwarven ears. Thorin smiled, and she kissed him.

He lightly ran his fingertips over the gentle curves of Helmwyn’s body, and along the small of her back; but she traced his scars, and the swell of his muscles, and the jagged outlines of the ink markings on his shoulder. There were angular shapes, and runes; but the runes were different from the ones she knew, and she could not read them.

“That is an image of the Lonely Mountain,” said Thorin in answer to her unspoken question; “and these are Barazinbar, Zirak-Zigil, and Bundushathûr, seen from Azanulbizar. Beneath those peaks lies Khazad-dûm…” The names in the dwarven tongue sounded strange to Helmwyn, as grim and forbidding as the mountains themselves. Helmwyn looked more closely at the stylised image of the Lonely Mountain – his home.

“What do the runes say?” she asked him; but she saw that Thorin’s eyes were sorrowful.

He did not answer at once. Instead he asked her: “Did I ever tell you about my brother?”

“I did not know you had a brother.”

“Aye, I did. His name was Frerin. He was five years younger than I.”

Helmwyn said nothing to that, for it was plain enough that Frerin was dead. She looked gravely at Thorin. He sighed, and rolled into Helmwyn’s arms, and laid his head on her breast; and she held him close, and stroked his flowing black curls, and listened.

“There was nothing we could salvage from within the Mountain when the dragon came; and we were left with what we carried with us, or whatever we could make or acquire on the road. But my father had been wearing his corselet of _sanzigil_ rings that day. It was a costly thing; but he was, after all, the King’s son.

“Know you of true-silver, my love? No? I did not think so, for it was mined only in Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, which is now lost to us; and it has become rare, and priceless. It is light and malleable, and does not tarnish; but our smiths could make it stronger than steel. Such a shirt of fine _sanzigil_ rings could have withstood a boar-spear.

“And so my father kept this mailshirt; and though throughout the years of our exile link after link was sold, and well below its right worth, there was still enough of it left when our war with the Orcs began. This we started over what had been done to Thrór – did Gandalf tell you of this?” Helmwyn nodded, and Thorin was glad not to have to speak of that.

“My brother and I were both young, some would say too young to fight,” he went on; “but there were but few of us, and none would stay behind, for we would rather have died to avenge the honour of our people than lived a diminished and shameful life. At least, that was how we felt then.

“My father was torn, for he wanted us both to be as well-shielded as we could be; but he only had one mailshirt to give. In the end, after much heartbreak, he gave it to me, for I was the eldest, and the better swordsman, and took part in the fighting in the caves. My brother was a fine archer, the finest I have ever known; but since he fought only above ground, and not in the van, my father hoped that he would have less need of the mail.

“Thus it was throughout the war; and thus too it was on the eve of the battle of Azanulbizar. We all knew that this battle would be a decisive one, and bitter; for the Orcs were desperate, and would sell their foul hides dearly. Once more I tried to press the mail onto my brother, as I had done before; but he merely laughed, as he always did, and said he did not need it. He told me that while I was hacking away in the van, he would be safely posted in the surrounding hills, and would watch my back, and give me cover.

“We found him that evening. He had taken an Orc-spear in the back, and choked on his own blood.”

Helmwyn said nothing, but held Thorin closer.

“My father was never the same again after that. Together we led what was left of our people to the Blue Mountains; but though he was still strong in body, his spirit was broken. At first it seemed he would rally once more; but then he began to withdraw into himself, and to neglect his rule. He is there, and yet he is not; but sometimes he is himself again, and those are the times I miss him the most cruelly.”

Helmwyn stroked Thorin’s hair, and he let her love soothe him. Thorin was relieved that he had told her. He knew that she understood his grief, and his guilt, and his burden. She understood that he was now a king in all but name. But with her at his side, he felt he would have the strength to bear this burden. He no longer felt alone. In truth, he had not known how alone he had been, for being alone had seemed normal.

He stirred, and touched his lady’s face, and rested his brow against hers. They held each other in silence; and Helmwyn reflected on the terrible chances that had ruled Thorin’s fate, and marvelled that he should be there at all, grieved but alive, in her arms.

***

When at last they rode back, Thorin looked at the lady, and thought of how she had ridden him earlier, with fierce eyes and flushed cheeks; and he felt a stirring in his loins.

***

The lord Telramund had noticed that Helmwyn was spending a great deal of time with the lord Thorin. That is, more time than usual, and alone. He had also noticed that the skin on her face looked rather red and chafed of late; and that certainly reminded him of something. He decided to broach the subject with his wife.

“Er, my dear, I was wondering about Helmwyn and the lord Thorin. It looks like she… do you think they…?”

“Obviously,” said the lady Ortrud.

“Oh. But…”

“But what? Look at them,” said she with a smile. “Look at her. Have you ever seen her like that?” She went and put her arms about her husband’s waist. “In fact, they rather remind me of us, when we were younger,” she purred, and gave Telramund a long kiss.

He was pleasantly surprised. Ortrud grinned at him; but Telramund was still a little nonplussed. “And what now?” he asked. “Will he wed her, do you think? Is that even possible? Or will he just go back? What will the King say?”

Ortrud’s smile faded. “I honestly do not know.”

“Don’t you think we ought to…?”

“I doubt there is anything we can do for now. Let us leave them be.”

Ortlind lurked behind a pillar, and overheard them, and she had no need to ask what was going on; for every night, she heard Helmwyn whisper the Dwarf’s name while she slept, with her sword clutched to her breast.

***

A golden haze hung over the vale on that summer evening. They had sought a quiet dell in the orchard, and made love furtively; but now they lay quiet in the tall grass, their clothes in disarray. Helmwyn had laid her head on Thorin’s shoulder, and played with one of his braids; but he watched the clouds drifting high above, and listened to the sounds of Lindburg: voices in the distance, the sounds of horses, the song of blackbirds, and the buzzing of insects. And Thorin twined his fingers in Helmwyn’s hair, and closed his eyes, and breathed in the warm scent of the grass; and for a long, perfect moment, he was happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: That was pretty angsty fluff, come to think of it.


	37. Chapter 36

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 36**

 

Helmwyn opened her eyes. She was awake at once. As the horns were sounded once again, she sprang out of bed, fully dressed, and searched in the darkened room for her armour. “Ortlind!” she called to her cousin. “Wake up! Wake up at once! And give me some light!”

Ortlind stirred. “What is it?” she asked sleepily, but she roused herself, for she heard the urgency in Helmwyn’s voice.

“Listen. They are sounding the horns,” replied Helmwyn, strapping on her skirt of scales. And the horns could only mean one thing: Orcs.

Ortlind lit a lamp at once, and ran to help her cousin into her breastplate, fastening all the buckles that Helmwyn could not reach. As for Helmwyn, she fumbled to put on her vambraces with one hand, and cursed. She was impatient, and was tempted to forget about her greaves; but Ortlind was surprisingly calm and quick about her task.

“You make a good squire, cousin!” said Helmwyn, and gave the girl one of her knives. It was all she could give her, for her practice sword was too heavy for her, and her mailshirt too big. She hoped she would not have to use it. Helmwyn girded herself with Fearless, and took up her shield; and with one last look at Ortlind, she strode out into the hall.

Men were running across the hall and out of the hall; and as Helmwyn came out onto the green, she looked about her and tried to understand what was happening. It was dark, save for the torches some men carried, and for a ruddy glow beyond the wall. Lindburg was already burning.

The lord Telramund walked up to her, and the lady Ortrud in her fighting leathers. “Helmwyn!” he called. I shall take men to the gate, and see to it that as many townspeople as possible can shelter inside the inner wall; for it seems the Orcs have already breached the town’s fence.”

“Perhaps they merely shot fire-arrows as of yet.”

“Perhaps. But we shall hold the gate. You two, stay here, and stand guard; for the Orcs might attempt to scale the wall!” And with that he blew his horn, and rallied men to him, and ran towards the town-gate.

“I left Ortlind inside with a knife,” Helmwyn told her aunt. “Do you think it is safe?”

“Nowhere is safe if Orcs come crawling in!” said Ortrud. “Come, let us gather what forces we may!”

The Dwarves had joined them, bristling with weapons, and the women were glad of their presence. Ortrud set about assembling some of the men that had gathered on the green, and took them to the western side of the wall; and Helmwyn took the remaining men eastwards.

“We are spread thin,” observed Thorin. “Where is everyone?”

“With my uncle, securing the gate,” answered Helmwyn. They heard men shouting, and women screaming; and the first townspeople came running into the second circle of Lindburg – as though it could shield them better than the first, thought Helmwyn darkly. She hoped they had thought to bring their weapons with them.

The pitch darkness was unnerving; and the torches, if anything, only served to spoil the men’s night vision.

“What do your dwarven eyes see?” she asked Thorin.

Thorin scanned the darkness, bow at the ready, silent and intent. He watched for grapnels, or axes, or even Orcs climbing the fence with their bare claws, like rats. He said nothing, but he loosed a shaft, and there was a yelp from the fence. They were coming.

And then they had light aplenty, for the fire-arrows came.

The men raised their shields, but the shafts whistled above them and behind them. Some struck the roofs of buildings, and the dry thatch began to smoulder.

“The hall!” someone shouted. “The hall is on fire!”

“Let it burn!” Helmwyn shouted back. “They are trying to lure us from the wall!” She sensed unease among the men. “You,” said she to one, “take some townsmen with you, and make sure there are none trapped inside. Do it quick! The rest of you, stand your ground!”

The blaze on the roof of the hall was already bright, and spreading fast. More people were running and shouting and screaming, but Helmwyn did not turn to look what happened behind her, for now they saw Orcs crawling over the fence in the flickering red light. Thorin took several down with his bow, and the men fell upon others as they leapt from the fence; and they held them back as there were not yet many. But then Helmwyn turned, and saw that the outbuildings had also caught fire, and among them, the storehouse where the harvest was kept. At once her belly tightened with fear.

She called to Thorin: “My lord! I shall need that horn back - now!”

Thankfully Thorin wore the great black horn on his belt; and he unhooked it, and gave it to Helmwyn, and she blew several blasts to call men to her. “The harvest!” she cried. “Take townspeople with you, make haste! Save the harvest!”

“But my lady, the Orcs!” objected one.

“We shall hold them back. Now go!”

Several men ran off toward the storehouse; and the defenders, their numbers dwindling, pulled back into a tighter circle, and hefted their shields. Thorin’s arrows were spent; and he now held up his great oaken gauntlet, and raised his axe, and squared his feet, and waited for the onslaught. Orcs ran at them, brandishing serrated scimitars and fearsome maces. But the defenders had the blaze at their backs, and perhaps the Orcs were blinded. Helmwyn blocked the flailing blows, and struck home; and Thorin covered her right-hand side, and cut the Orcs’ legs from underneath them.

More Orcs kept coming over the wall, and the defenders backed away, and locked their shields; and Thorin glanced over his shoulder, and saw men and women using spears, axes, reaping-hooks, anything they could find, to pull the burning thatch down off the storehouse roof.

The Orcs fell upon the shield-wall, but could not breach it; for while they hacked blindly at wood, the defenders swung axes and thrust spears and swords through every opening, and soon the Orcs had to step over the bodies of their slain fellows. But they threatened to overwhelm the defenders from the sides, and ever the defenders retreated, and their line began to curve inward.

But then the horses came. The stables were ablaze, and someone had thought to release the horses; but the beasts, maddened from the fire and the noise, ran wildly from the stables and rode down anyone in their path. The defenders huddled closely behind their shields, and stood firm; but many Orcs were mown down by the very horses whose flesh they had sought to devour.

The defenders seized the occasion, and thrust back and killed many Orcs that were wounded or bewildered; but others had withdrawn a little, and regrouped for a renewed onslaught. Helmwyn glanced over her shoulder, and saw townspeople standing there with axes and staves and reaping-hooks at the ready, young and old, men and women both. And she saw the fierce determination in their eyes; and to Thorin’s amazement, she laughed.

“If they have come to bargain for our goods here at Lindburg,” she called, “we shall make them pay a high price! Eorlingas! To me!” And with that the people of Lindburg advanced, and came to strengthen the shield-wall. But Telramund’s men had returned from the gate, and spread out to fill the gaps in the defence; and a circle of shields now stood before the Orcs.

“Let them come,” Thorin heard Helmwyn growl between clenched teeth. “Let all that are against us come!”

And then the Orcs charged.

***

A grey, drizzly day was rising, and Thorin found Helmwyn standing on the green, watching the hall as it smouldered in the fine rain. The roof had caved in, and the blackened beams burned still inside. She stood there like an image carved in stone, her arms clenched to her sides; but her face was wet with tears. He went and stood silently by her side.

“We will rebuild,” she said. “That is one of the good things about building in wood; we can rebuild easily.”

But Thorin saw that the dry leaves of the linden tree had also caught fire, and the crown of the great tree was scorched and blackened. He understood how she felt, for he knew what it was to witness the destruction of a beloved home; and so he pulled her close and held her. And she buried her face in his hair, and wept, and cared not that all could see.

She did not weep long however, for she found strength in his embrace, and comfort. “I weep for a place where I have been happy,” she told him; “but you are unharmed, my lord, and that is all that truly matters.” Thorin stroked her face, and gently pulled her head down until her brow touched his.

***

They wandered together over the green, looking for wounded, or for familiar faces among the slain; and they would dispatch any Orc that still clung to life. They found Dwalin and Ortrud with young Ortlind. The girl was alive and unhurt, but she was white as a sheet, and still clutched Helmwyn’s knife. It was stained with Orc-blood, but she would not let go of it.

Telramund joined them at last, weary and ashen-faced. He too was covered in blood, but Helmwyn threw her arms about his neck, and wept again, and begged for his forgiveness.

“What is it, child? What is there to forgive?” the grizzled warrior asked.

“Forgive me, uncle,” Helmwyn said again. “The men wanted to run to the hall, and attempt to save it; but I ordered them to let it burn.”

Telramund smiled sadly. “Of course you did,” said he, and kissed her brow; “of course you did.”

“But the harvest is safe?”

“The harvest is safe,” said Telramund. And with that he went and gently prized the bloody knife out of his daughter’s hands.

***

The men had begun to lay out the bodies of their fallen companions on the green. Ortrud started giving instructions to the women, that they should tend the wounded, and the Dwarves went to see if anything could be salvaged from the ruined hall. Helmwyn desperately needed sleep, but even more, she needed to organise something. And so she went into the town, and commandeered a cart that had escaped the burning, and organised the removal of dead Orcs. It was an unpleasant task, but someone had to do it; and besides, she was little use at healing.

She took a few men with her; and together they stripped the Orcs of their armour and weapons, and loaded them onto the cart, and drove them out of Lindburg. They piled the bodies at a crossroads outside the town. Helmwyn saw that some men had managed to find horses, and rode abroad to bring back the others that had bolted during the night. As they walked back towards Lindburg to fetch another cartload of Orcs, they passed men digging graves outside the fence, on the eastern flank of a green hill where Lindburg’s dead were laid to rest.

They took the cart through the town, and though the folk of the Mark were hardy, Helmwyn heard the sound of weeping from many houses. Not all townspeople, it seemed, had been able to reach the safety of the second enclosure. Helmwyn had felt numb, but now she felt the anger rising in her throat like bile.

***

When there were no more Orcs to cart away, Helmwyn walked back to the green, and looked upon the slain, soldiers and townspeople, men and women, young and old. Then she went to the fountain, and let the water run long over her hands; and she bathed her face, and drank, for her throat was parched from the labour and the smoke. She reeked of it. The whole of Lindburg reeked of it.

She found the Dwarves behind the hall, where folk had assembled everything that they could salvage from the ashes. The lady Ortrud was with them, looking drawn and exhausted; and Helmwyn went and embraced her.

“Could aught be saved?” Helmwyn asked.

“Everything that has not burned is blackened,” said Ortrud; “and there is little that could still be used. But mercifully, most of the grain and other stores have survived. None shall starve.” 

There were also fewer mouths to feed, thought Helmwyn. “Tomorrow, we must bring it all to Helm’s Deep,” she said.

“Aye,” said Ortrud. “Tomorrow. But tonight we bury the dead.”

Helmwyn went to find Thorin; and he took her hand, and led her to one side. His face and arms were stained with soot-marks, and his eyes were the bluest she had ever seen; and she wanted to kiss him.

“I found something that belongs to you,” he said.

Helmwyn smiled. “You are kind, my lord,” she said. “But you need not have troubled yourself on my account. I have my armour, and I have my sword -” and she laid her hand upon his heart, as if to say _and I have you_. “That is all I need.”

But Thorin went and opened a wooden chest – the very chest that had been in her chamber. It was singed and blackened; but from it Thorin lifted a bundle wrapped in scorched leather. And Helmwyn’s heart leapt, for inside the leather were sheets of parchment, their edges russet and curled with the heat, but mostly intact – her collection of songs. She held the sheaf of parchments to her heart, and Thorin held her to his; and she kissed his soot-blackened face, and felt her eyes sting again.

***

The clouds broke at last; and as the light of the setting sun began to turn fire-red, the remaining folk of Lindburg gathered on the side of the green hill outside the town to bury their dead.

It was not much of a ceremony; but as the men threw earth over the bodies, Telramund spoke the names of the dead aloud, every one of them, and said they had died fighting, and would be welcomed into the halls of the ancestors with honour. Then Ortrud, still clad in leather and mail, and girded with her sword, began to chant a dirge in the tongue of the Mark. The onlookers’ faces were closed, and some wept as Ortrud sang, and the graves filled with earth.

 _“Hwær cwom mearg?”_ Ortrud sang. _“Hwær cwom mago?_

_Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?_

_Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?_

_Hwær sindon seledreamas?_

_Eala beorht bune!_

_Eala byrnwiga!_

_Eala þeodnes þrym!_

_Hu seo þrag gewat,_

_genap under nihthelm,_

_swa heo no wære.”_ (1)

Thorin found himself wondering why it was Ortrud chanting the dirge, and not Helmwyn. Perhaps it was because it was Ortrud’s duty as lady of Lindburg. Perhaps it was because Helmwyn’s voice would have cracked with grief. He looked at his lady, but her tears were spent, and her face was unreadable.

The sun vanished beyond the western hills, and folk filed back to what was left of Lindburg, and they shared what food they could under the open sky, speaking with quiet voices. Shelter was offered by those who still had homes. Blankets and pelts were brought. Help was pledged to widows and orphans. Folk spoke in their own tongue, but the Dwarves knew well enough what passed between the folk of Lindburg that night; aye, they knew well enough.

But when the stars came out, Helmwyn rose once more, and Ortrud, and Telramund, and the Dwarves, and the soldiers, and many of the townsfolk. They lit torches, and once more they filed out of the town, and walked past the freshly-dug graves, and went and stood by the crossroads where the dead Orcs lay in a mound.

It was fully dark now; and the men cast oil onto the mound of corpses, and set their torches to it; and soon a great blaze rose from the bodies, and a stench. The watchers stood in a circle, and did not flinch; but Helmwyn turned away form the pyre, and took a few steps into the darkness, and peered into the night. Thorin came to stand beside her.

“Can you see the mountains?” she asked him.

“I can guess their outlines, aye,” he said. He looked at her, and saw that her face was grim; and though her armour was tarnished, still it shone red in the firelight.

“Good,” said she. “Then I hope the bastards can see the pyre from up there. I want them to know that they will burn, every single last one of them.”

Thorin searched for her hand in the dark, and twined his fingers with hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Those are lines from the Anglo-Saxon poem The Wanderer. Which might sound a little familiar.
> 
> Where is the horse gone? Where the rider?  
> Where the giver of treasure?  
> Where are the seats at the feast?  
> Where are the revels in the hall?  
> Alas for the bright cup!  
> Alas for the mailed warrior!  
> Alas for the splendour of the prince!  
> How that time has passed away,  
> dark under the cover of night,  
> as if it had never been!
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: Well, boys and girls, I guess that was back to reality after all the fluff. Hope you enjoyed the Orc-Raid! I’d love to hear what you think! Don’t be shy. Step into the light! ;-)


	38. Chapter 37

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 37**

 

The stores that had been salvaged from Lindburg had now been brought to Helm’s Deep; and a small garrison of men remained in Lindburg to protect the lady Ortrud and the villagers. But the lord Telramund, and the lady Helmwyn, and the Dwarves had now repaired to the Hornburg, for there, they were sure, the blow would fall sooner rather than later.

There was now a constant procession of carts and wagons bringing grain and goods to the shelter of Helm’s Deep, and with the stores, there also came refugees. The Riders were stretched thin. The King himself, and both his sons, and every able man in the Mark now patrolled the Westfold; for they knew that harvest time was the most dangerous time of all. They were ever riding up and down the slow columns of wains, and ever watchful. They were on alert at nights especially, but neither did they rest much during the day, for they knew the Orcs were aware of their plans, and might be desperate enough to try anything.

Those who remained in the Hornburg had no easy time of it either; for the stores that arrived in the keep needed to be moved further into the caves, and the narrow doors and steep stairs of the stronghold had been intended for defence, not for ease of access. Luckily, Snorri’s hoists came in useful one more, and allowed them to lower sacks of grain from the keep with little enough trouble.

A wall of quarried stone blocks had been raised across the entrance of the caves; and from there, men could have withstood an onslaught well enough. But as long as streams of goods were being hauled in, they had to leave a makeshift wooden gate in the wall. The Dwarves did not like this, for it was the one weak point in the defences; but there was nothing for it but to wait until a more permanent gate could be installed.

Riders arrived weary at the camp before the Deeping-Wall, and departed weary on their next patrol. Many men were stationed in the caves, to hold the various exits; and a guard now ever stayed inside the Hornburg, to protect the keep. Part of the camp was moved inside the Deeping-Wall, for that way did they expect an attack; but the greater part of the camp remained on the outside, on account of the horses.

Thorin had prevailed on Helmwyn to remain in the Hornburg; after all, he had reasoned, if the King and her brothers and her uncle and every other captain in the Mark were already riding out, she might as well remain there in relative safety. She had relented for his sake. But she had been on edge ever since the attack on Lindburg; and if she had slept in her boots before, she now slept in her armour, and woke at the slightest noise. She was weary, but driven by sheer willpower; and she managed the camp and the stores as efficiently as she could.

She attempted to bring some order into the incoming goods, and tried to keep a record of how much was brought, and whence; and Balin and Snorri helped with the hopeless endeavour, as the walls were now mended, and there was little else for them to do. But Helmwyn was at pains to assure the people that this was no tax; but that their produce would be kept safe from the Orcs, and would be shared among the dispossessed, and used to avert a famine.

In truth, she was relieved that Thorin’s expeditions into the mountains seemed to have been put on hold indefinitely. If they had little privacy before, they had none now; but they were grateful at least to be together. Often in the daytime, they would take an hour or two off their respective duties; and Helmwyn would unbuckle her breastplate, and lay her head in Thorin’s lap, and snatch a little sleep. He would stroke her hair, and watch with concern the little frown-line on her brow; and he cared not a whit that anyone saw them, as long as they did not wake her. But she would wake rested, and smile at him, and if no one were watching, she would kiss him. His presence soothed her, and gave her strength; and together they waited for the gathering storm.

***

Thorin knew his way around the caves by now, for he spent his days inside, seeing to the defences, and trying to keep the men’s spirits up. He could see that the Riders did not take well to being confined underground, but grumbled, and asked why they could not be relieved; and kept telling them that it was best that they remain at their post, since they too had become familiar with the caves by now, and were less likely to get lost.

He made his way back to the little guardroom, which the Dwarves had taken to using as their headquarters inside the caves. They had all gathered there, and got a fire going, and shared a desultory midday meal; but it was dragging on, and they were in no particular hurry to return to what they had been doing, as there was now precious little for them to do – except perhaps for Snorri and Balin, who were vaguely helping with the paperwork.

The others greeted him with cries of “There you are! Where do you keep disappearing off to?”

“Every Dwarf needs a break,” he replied evasively. Balin noticed a golden hair caught in Thorin’s chainmail, but said nothing.

“A break from what?” asked Andvari. “It’s not like there’s anything much left for us to do.”

“Aye,” Hogni agreed. “The wall is as good as new – even better, if you ask me; the castle is mended, the caves are secure… why the hell are we still here?”

“Why, to help hold the caves!” said Thorin, as though that were the most natural thing in the world.

“Why should we sit around with these folk, holding their hands while they wait for the Orcs to attack?” growled Hogni.

“Aye, this was supposed to be a building job. There’s been altogether too much fighting,” said Regin, who hadn’t done any.

“The other night was a close shave,” said Snorri, who missed the comfort of Lindburg.

Dwalin and Balin exchanged a glance, and looked at Thorin. Clearly the others were not aware of the…recent developments. But Thorin stared aghast at his companions – it had not even occurred to him that the others might want to leave. He tried reasoning with them, but they remained impermeable to the argument that it would be dishonourable to abandon the horse-people in their hour of need.

“We don’t owe them anything,” said Hogni flatly. “But they certainly owe us!”

Andvari seconded that. “Aye, and I hope they won’t try and wriggle out of it, saying sorry, we’ve got an Orc problem, can we pay later?”

The Dwarves began to squabble, and Thorin sighed, and wished he had remained in the keep; and Dwalin sat silent in a corner, nursing his drink, and thought wistfully of the lady Ortrud. And all the while Snorri blithely doodled in his notebook, devising a sanitation system for the caves.

***

Walda dismounted, and gave the reins of his horse to a squire, and went to embrace his sister. This proved a little more awkward than usual, as they both now wore a breastplate.

“Sister!” he roared, and pulled her into a bear hug. “Dear sister. You have your armour at last! Let me have a look at you!” He stepped back, and frowned. “What happened to your face?”

“Why,” said Helmwyn, “what is wrong with my face?”

“There are …diamond-shaped marks on your cheek,” said Walda, and hoped it was not some ghastly burn scar.

“Oh, that. I fell asleep,” said she, as if that explained anything. She neglected to say that what she had fallen asleep on was Thorin’s byrnie.

Walda studied his sister’s face, and saw that there were dark circles under her eyes, too.

“Will you not return to Edoras?” he said gently. “You look exhausted.”

“I cannot,” said she. “I will not. There is still so much to do…”

Walda heard the sharpness in his sister’s voice, and knew that she bristled at his concern, as she had always done. He changed the subject.

“You have already done so much. Look how this place has changed within a few months!”

Together they stood, and gazed at the Deeping-Wall. The great, new-quarried stones were expertly joined and fitted, and the fortress looked strong and impregnable, as it must have looked in days of old – grim and forbidding even in the noonday sun.

“This is truly astonishing work, sister,” said Walda. “I must confess, I never would have believed that anything would come of your wild scheme of sending for Dwarves. And yet here we stand and look upon the Hornburg; and it is stronger than any living man has ever seen it!”

“I am glad the work pleases you, brother. But save your praise for the Dwarves! It is they you need to thank for this – and for much more besides.” And Helmwyn took her brother’s arm, and told him of everything the Dwarves had done for the Mark – the stonework, and the ingenious devices, and the fighting. Especially the fighting. But Walda saw that his sister’s tired face brightened, and that her eyes were shining, and that her voice was passionate as she spoke of the deeds of the Dwarves; and the name of their prince - Thorin Thráinsson, the Oakenshield - was ever on her lips.

The lord Thorin this, and the lord Thorin that. Helmwyn was as excited as a young filly; and Walda marvelled to see her like that. “Sister,” he said, and turned to look her in the eye. “Is there something you are not telling me?”

But Helmwyn beamed at him. “How well you know me, brother. Or is it that obvious?” But before he could answer, she went on. “Aye, there is something I must tell you. I have glad news, brother!”

Oh dear, thought Walda; and he felt something tighten in his belly. “Is this anything to do with the lord Thorin?”

“It is indeed,” said Helmwyn.

Walda tried to remember which one the lord Thorin had been. “Was he not that proud, dark-haired fellow? The one with the scowl?”

Helmwyn laughed. “The very one!”

Oh dear, thought Walda. “And you love him?” he ventured weakly.

“Aye, I do,” said Helmwyn. “Wish me joy, brother!” And with a slight _clang_ of breastplates, Helmwyn threw her arms around her brother’s neck; and so she did not see the way his handsome brow furrowed with concern. Walda was utterly flummoxed. True, the lord Thorin was a prince. But he was a workman! But he was a prince. And a great warrior. But he was a Dwarf!

He did not know what to make of this, and began to worry that his sister was a little crazed. He unwrapped her arms from around his neck, and looked at her once more.

“Have you told Father?” he asked.

“Not yet,” answered Helmwyn. “But I beg you, if you see him, say nothing, for I would tell him the news myself! I know he will be as glad for me as you are!”

Oh dear, thought Walda.

***

Thorin and Dwalin sat together on the Deeping-Wall, watching the chasm, and the mountains beyond, with their night-keen eyes. They had wrapped their cloaks about their shoulders to ward off the chill; but they lit no fire, to preserve their night-vision. They would have smoked, had they had any pipe-weed left; but they had quite run out, and so they made do with mugs of ale.

They sat in silence, as they usually did during those long watches; for they were as brothers, and their camaraderie needed few words. But there was something on Dwalin’s mind; and after a while he rumbled, and asked Thorin:

“So…you and the little lady…?”

“Aye,” said Thorin.

“Good for you, mate. Good for you,” said Dwalin. “She’s a great lass,” he added.

“Aye,” said Thorin; “that she is.”

Dwalin was quiet for a moment, and drank some more; but then he asked:

“Thorin?”

“What?”

“…What’s it like? With a taller woman?”

“Shut up,” said Thorin; but he grinned into the darkness.

 


	39. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This week, boys and girls, it’s sex and violence. So, you know, skip ahead if you’re sensitive. I think it’s fairly mild, but then, I’m a cynical old goat.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 38**

 

Thorin shook Balin awake. The older Dwarf grunted, and sat up, and rubbed the sleep form his eyes.

“Your turn,” said Thorin quietly. “No sign of them so far.”

Balin yawned. “It’s been too damned quiet, if you ask me,” he said, and climbed out of his bedroll. “I wish they’d just bloody well get on with it - attack, and have done.” Thorin gave his friend a crooked smile; and Balin marched off to take his watch on the Deeping-Wall.

Thorin set down his weapons, and unbuckled his sword-belt, and stoked the fire, and made ready to lie down. But then he took one look at Dwalin, who was snoring contentedly, and at the sleeping men; and he cast a glance over his shoulder, to a small canvas tent with a blue shield propped up near the entrance. The lady Helmwyn had insisted on sleeping in the camp inside the Wall, to be ready in case of an attack; but they did give her a tent of her own, since she was, after all, a lady.

Thorin walked over to the tent and snuck inside. There she lay, curled on her side, clutching her sword, as was her habit. Thorin made to join her as quietly as possible, trying not to wake her. Helmwyn woke with a start, but Thorin whispered a few words to soothe her; and he lay down behind his lady, and she sleepily wrapped his arm around her. They snuggled as close as their war-gear would allow; and Thorin nuzzled Helmwyn’s neck.

He had merely meant to hold her, and to let her sleep, and to get some sleep himself; but now he was getting second thoughts. He reached under her gambeson, and unlaced her breeches, and slipped his hand inside; and gently, ever so gently, he began to stroke her. Helmwyn let out a deep sigh, and she slowly began to move her hips against his fingers. Thorin kissed her throat, and felt her quickening pulse; and he held her firmly, and went on stroking her deeper, and ever deeper, until at last she tensed, and threw back her head, and came long and silently.

Panting and now wide awake, Helmwyn grabbed a handful of Thorin’s hair, and pressed his lips to hers, and kissed him hungrily. And she turned in his arms, and launched a passionate counter-attack of her own, and Thorin happily surrendered to her – but then they heard the horns. The storm had broken at last; the Orcs were coming.

The lovers froze, and broke apart; and they hastily readjusted their garments, and hurried out of the tent. Helmwyn grabbed her shield, and buckled on her sword and helm as she went, and Thorin ran to fetch his own weapons; but before he even girded himself, he took up the black horn which he still kept, and blew three mighty blasts, calling the men to him.

Dwalin was awake, and was strapping on his twin battle-axes. “’Bout bloody time,” he muttered; but Thorin did not know if he meant the Orcs, or him. Balin came running down from the Wall. “They are coming!” he cried. “I saw them swarming down the narrows. I think the caves will bear the brunt of the assault, but enough are coming this way to cut us off.”

Thorin cursed. “That damned fence!” said he, thinking of the makeshift gate in the wall that barred the entrance to the caves. “It will not hold long, unless the boys keep their wits about them and block it with rubble! But even so, I fear that they shall be overwhelmed; for the Orcs are sure to attack the rear entrances as well.”

“Then the Orcs will be stretched thin,” said Helmwyn. “Could you guess their numbers?” she asked Balin.

“I could not,” he answered. “But this I know: even if they are fewer in number, the Orcs will have the advantage in the caves.”

“Aye,” said Thorin. “And if the caves fall, we will not be able to retake them.”

Men were girding themselves, and some were running through the camp in confusion; and Thorin blew the black horn once more: “To me!” he called. “Men of Westfold! To me!”

“Just what do you think you are doing?” said a drawling voice.

They turned, and saw Waldred striding towards them, while two squires tried to keep up with him, and fussed with the buckles of his armour. Waldred had arrived that afternoon with his _éored_ ; and in those few hours, he had succeeded in making the Dwarves dislike him even more.

Thorin pulled the straps of his oakenshield tight about his arm. “I am rallying the men, and I am going to the aid of those trapped in the caves,” said he between clenched teeth. Waldred happened to be the highest-ranking captain in the stronghold; but Thorin thought he was a fool, and he was not one to suffer fools gladly.

“Good of you to wake the troops, Master Dwarf!” sneered Waldred. “But I shall take over from here. Or did you think you would be leading the assault? Mind you, it would be quite a sight!”

Thorin had neither the time nor the patience to be civil to that obnoxious princeling. There _was_ no time. The Orcs would be there any moment now. He turned on Waldred.

“And what do you know of war in the mountains, horseboy?” said Thorin in a low, dangerous growl. “Have you ever fought in caves? Have you ever even been inside your own caves? Can you see in the dark? No? So hold your tongue!”

Men had armed and assembled, and all were now staring at Thorin and Waldred. The blade of the Dwarf’s great axe shone red in the torchlight, and he looked fierce and terrible. But before Waldred had time to think of a retort, the screaming began. The Orcs had reached the camp.

“We cut through to the caves!” bellowed Thorin. “Helmwyn – make for the keep. Hold the gate! Balin, Dwalin – stay with her. Go!” And with that he hefted his axe, and charged; and the men swept after him with sword and spear. Waldred had no choice but to follow; and he drew his sword, cursing.

Helmwyn did not have the time to protest, or even to watch Thorin go, for Balin hurried her towards the stairs to that led up to the Hornburg; and Dwalin ran ahead of them, and cleared the way with great sweeps of his twin axes, for the first Orcs had already reached them. They leapt up the stone stairs, but there were men coming down from the keep to join the fray. “Turn back!” Helmwyn cried. “Back, you fools!” There was some confusion, as more men were pushing from above; but they did turn around eventually, and just in time, for the Orcs were snapping at their heels, and it was all Dwalin could do to hold them back on the stairs. At last they reached the keep, and slammed the door shut behind them.

Helmwyn looked at the men garrisoned in the Hornburg; and they looked to her expectantly, waiting for orders. She had enough sense to understand that Thorin needed her to hold the keep; but knowing that he was out there, battling a swarm of Orcs, tore at her heart. She willed herself to be calm, and gathered her wits.

“Master Balin, would you be so kind, and look from the battlements to see what numbers we are facing?” she said. “And Master Dwalin, might I ask you to run up the tower and sound the great horn, while things are still relatively quiet?”

If the Orcs are stretched thin, she thought grimly, then so are we. The reserve garrison at Helm’s Deep was divided between the caves, the keep, and the camps on either side of the Wall. There were not many men in the Hornburg itself; but even now, more men were filing up the causeway from the camp below, and the courtyard of the stronghold slowly began to fill up with soldiers.

“How many Orcs?” Helmwyn called to Balin.

“Not many,” he called back; “fewer than us. They have sent a splinter of their force to harass us; but the greater part of them is further up the Deep, striking against the caves with all their might.” And Thorin is in the thick of it, he thought. Mahal protect the lad. “But they are beginning to climb!”

“You heard Balin!” Helmwyn cried. “To the walls, boys!” Men ran to take up their position on the battlements; and at that moment, a great bellow rang out in the Deep, and shook the very stone beneath their feet. The sound seemed to strike fear in the hearts of the attackers, and for a moment their screeching and jeering died down; but the hearts of the men were filled with courage. “Helm!” some of them cried, and the others took up the call: “Helm! Helm for the Westfold!”

Helmwyn did not know how far the sound of the great horn would carry across the plains; but she hoped that there might be _éoreds_ close by, and that they would come.

The first Orcs had reached the battlements, climbing with hooks and ropes, or with their filthy claws – although how they could find purchase on the smooth fitted stones of the Hornburg was a marvel. The walls were well-manned, and the defenders cut the Orcs down; but more were coming. Dwalin reappeared, and the men cheered him; and he grinned, and hefted his hammer, and joined the fighting with grim enthusiasm.

Balin went to Helmwyn. “The Orcs are merely goading us!” he told her. “We’ll be here all night at this rate!” He chafed at being trapped inside the fortress, and wanted to join the others in the caves. “They have not the numbers to overwhelm the Hornburg; but they are trying to hold us up, trap us inside, and cut us off from the force in the Deep!”

“I know, Master Balin,” she said. “We will avail our friends nothing if we stay here. But if we attempt a sortie, the Orcs will simply pick us off one by one at the foot of those wretched narrow stairs!”

“Not if we wipe them out first,” said Balin with a glint in his eye. He raced inside the keep, and came back a few moments later with a crate – the last of the fire-jars. He handed them out, and instructed the men on how to use them.

Helmwyn turned to the men who crowded the fortress. “You lot, at the back,” she called. “Two score of you. Stay here, hold the fort, and keep that gate open! The rest of you, ready yourselves! We’re going out! Master Balin, if you please - make the bastards burn!”

Balin signalled to the men, and with a torch he lit the hemp rope of the jar he held, and lobbed it over the wall into the pack of Orcs at the foot of the Hornburg. It burst into flame as it hit the ground, and the Orcs yelped and squealed; but before they could flee, a volley of the things crashed among them and behind them, spraying them with sticky fire and trapping them against the wall. “Again!” cried Balin; and a second volley was flung from the walls into the inferno below.

“Archers!” Helmwyn called. “To the walls! Give us cover! Brace yourselves, boys! Let’s get out there and finish them off!”

They flung open the door, and ran down the stairs. They could go only in single file, and were exposed and vulnerable; and the Orcs hurled spears and arrows at them. But the Orcs were dispersed, and the archers above gave them cover; and the Orc-spears hit the round linden-shields of the Rohirrim, or glanced off them. Dwalin was leading the sortie; and he mowed down any Orc that came within reach of his axes.

They ran through the flames, and cut down the bewildered Orcs; but those who had escaped the fire turned and ran away up the Deep. The defenders stopped and regrouped. “This is our chance, boys!” Helmwyn called. “Tonight, all the bastards have come at once. And tonight, we can slaughter every single last one of the ill-begotten vermin! What say you? Shall we slaughter them?” The men roared their approval, and beat their shields with their weapons. Helmwyn was glad that her men showed such heart; for though she had spoken words of defiance, her own heart quaked. They would soon find out whether or not Thorin had cloven his way through to the caves.

She felt the weight of Fearless in her grasp, and breathed deep, and smothered her fears. Dwalin and Balin were beside her. She trusted them; and she trusted her men. “Shield wall!” she cried; and the linden shields of the Rohirrim clattered as they locked, and they marched forward up the Deep.

***

Waldred was impressed. He would never have admitted it, or else only very grudgingly; but he was extremely impressed. It had not merely been bluster on the Dwarf’s part. He truly was a powerful fighter; and not only did he fight: he led. Though he stood little above five feet, he swung an axe almost as big as he was; and few Orcs dared come near him, and those that did promptly fell.

They had driven a wedge through the Orcs, and cloven their way to the caves through the sheer savagery of their onslaught; and now they stood with their backs to the wall that barred the entrance of the caves, blood-bespattered, and yelled defiance and insults at the attackers. Waldred wondered what had come over the men – but then, he had never attended one of Dwalin’s training sessions; nor had he ever gone with Thorin up into the mountains. But the men followed the Dwarf fearlessly, and stood firm beside him, and followed his orders unquestioningly.

They had come not a moment too soon. The Orcs had breached the wooden gate, and had begun to flood into the caves; but Thorin and his men had blocked off the assault, and allowed the defenders to subdue the invaders. Hogni and Andvari were even now closing the breach in the wall with broken stone.

Waldred had thought that the purpose of their coming, once they had reached the caves, was to shelter inside; but that was not what Thorin had in mind. He stood firm before the wall, for he could guess that though the Orcs would focus their attack on the main gate, they would also harry the back doors to divide the defenders. He did not know what was happening at the other end of the caves. No-one seemed to know. And so Thorin stood his ground, and killed as many of the filthy creatures as he could.

Waldred had only ever fought Orcs on horseback – hunted them down and speared them in the back. It had seemed easy. But he had never fought them on foot, in a melee. It was chaos. There were the little vicious bastards who would hack at men’s legs, or leap at them and try to stab them in the face; and there were the big bastards, who flailed around with hideous maces that would splinter shields and crush bone. There were the ones that bit, and the ones that clawed; and Waldred forgot everything he thought he knew, all his skill and careful schooling, and it was just a matter of hacking, blocking, slamming his shield into their faces and trying not to get killed.

But not the Dwarf. The Dwarf stood as though he was rooted in the stone, legs apart, broad-shouldered and immovable. His axe was now on his back, for there was no room to swing it; but he held a broad sword, and that preposterous wooden gauntlet of his, and his pale eyes blazed. A calmness seemed to be on him, as though this were fated, as though he had been doing this all his life.

The Orcs seemed to know him, or to know of him, for they eyed the crude wooden shield he wore, and it seemed to Waldred that they hissed one word that spread through their ranks – _‘Ekenshkeldû’_ or something equally uncouth; and they bared their pointed teeth at the Dwarf and snarled. They appeared to have an especial loathing for him; but only the boldest dared to fight him.

One particularly large brute came forth, and he must have been one of their champions, for the Orcs egged him on, and the fighting stalled, and all watched the duel between the Orc and the Dwarf. Waldred gave up the Dwarf for lost, for the Orc wielded a great jagged blade of black, pockmarked steel, and bristled with black, jagged armour; and he had evidently survived some hideous injuries, and seemed impossible to kill. He raised his great ugly blade, and brought it down with a roar; but the Dwarf merely ducked and weaved, until the Orc was maddened with fury. He lunged at the Dwarf again, but now Thorin deflected the blow with his shield, and swung his sword, and severed the sinews of his enemy’s arm; and the black blade fell from the Orc’s nerveless hand. The Orc howled with pain and rage, but he was undaunted, and charged at Thorin, disarmed though he was; but Thorin struck him in the face with his shield, and as the great brute reeled from the blow, Thorin grabbed him by his nose-rings, and sliced his head clean off.

The great Orc’s body sagged to its knees, and fell; and all watched in stunned silence as Thorin held up his ghastly trophy. But Thorin hurled the severed head into the Orc ranks, and roared defiance at them. “Is this all you’ve got?” he bellowed. “Is this the best you can do? Come on, you maggots! Come here and die!”

A rumour, an agitation rippled through the massed Orcs; and Waldred wondered whether the Dwarf had succeeded in single-handedly deterring them. But soon a panic broke out; and the defenders heard horns in the distance, and they understood that help had come, and that the Orcs were being assaulted from the rear.

 _Helmwyn_ , Thorin thought, and his joy was mixed with fear.

***

For a while the Orcs fought on two fronts, but they could no longer hope to overwhelm the defenders; and at last they broke ranks, and dispersed, and fled up the narrows and back into the mountains. The men did not pursue them, for they could not scamper over rocks like Orcs did. But Thorin called to Grimwald, who commanded the defences inside the caves; and he told him that the front gate was secure, and that all men inside should be redeployed towards the rear entrances, to ensure that neither had been breached. He was tempted to go and see for himself how they fared in the caves; but first he had to find his lady.

He strode out of the entrance of the caves into the Deep. In the pale dawn, he saw men wandering among the slain, men killing off stray Orcs, men helping their wounded comrades; and his eyes scanned all their faces, and the faces of the slain; but he did not see his lady. He walked among the men, looking for her; but then he saw her, and his heart beat faster.

She had lost her helm, and half her face was bloody from a cut she had received to the head; but she seemed otherwise unhurt. She had been looking for him; and she saw him, and walked towards him, and her eyes shone bright. Her shield was hewn and battered, and her naked blade was blackened with Orc blood, and her armour gleamed faintly in the pale light of dawn. Thorin strode towards her, and pulled her to him; and he touched his bloody brow to her bloody brow, and rejoiced that she lived. But Helmwyn threw down her shield, and twined her fingers in his hair, and kissed him full on the mouth before the eyes of all.

There was a stunned silence over Helm’s Deep. Then little by little a murmur began, and swelled, until the cries of the men filled the chasm with their mighty chorus, and the sound of spears beating on shields echoed between the grey cliffs. ‘ _Unforht!_ ’ and ‘ _Áecen-scyld!_ ’ they cried, but Helmwyn heeded it not, and Thorin let fall his sword that he still held, and folded her in his arms.

Thus did they proclaim their love for all to behold, as the first rays of the sun gilded the clouds above Helm’s Deep. Balin blushed to see such a display of intimacy, and looked away abashed; and Waldred looked on, stunned, for the strangeness of that scene compounded anything he had seen that night. But Dwalin wiped away a tear, and smiled into his beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just HAD to give them a nice cinematic kiss after the, ahem, Skirmish of Helm’s Deep. All right, so I’m not such a cynical old goat after all.


	40. Chapter 39

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 39**

 

Thorin and Helmwyn stood brow to brow, and heeded not the noise of the world around them; but they whispered urgent, tender nothings, amidst a flurry of kisses and caresses.

“My love,” said Thorin.

“Are you unhurt? Are you truly unhurt?”

“You live. Thank Mahal.”

“My lord, my dear lord…”

“Your poor brow…”

“It is nothing.”

“Oh, my lady,” Thorin breathed against Helmwyn’s throat.

But then she asked: “What losses had you? How many wounded?”

“You have done enough,” said he against her lips. “But I should see to the caves…”

“You have done enough,” said Helmwyn, and silenced him with a kiss.

“As you wish,” said he at last, and touched her blood-soaked hair. “But let us have that wound of yours tended, I beg you; for it grieves me to see you like this.”

An _éored_ had arrived, and men were marching towards the caves; but Thorin and Helmwyn walked slowly back towards the camp side by side, blood-bespattered but together.

Thorin insisted that Dwalin should see to Helmwyn’s wound, for it had been he who had sewn Thorin up after the battle of Azanulbizar; and Helmwyn, having seen the scars first-hand, had to agree that it was good needlework, though of course she did not say so.

Dwalin bade Helmwyn sit down, and took a close look at the gash on her scalp.

“Well, it’s a nice clean cut,” said he, “And it doesn't look like the blade was poisoned, or you’d know it by now. We’ll have you patched up in no time. There’s just one thing: if I’m to sew you up properly, I’m going to have to cut off some of that hair. You don’t mind, do you?”

Helmwyn said nothing, but instead pulled the knife from her boot and handed it to Dwalin.

“That’s my girl,” he grinned, and carefully began to shear off the hair that grew around the edge of the wound; and the bloodstained locks fell into her lap. (1)

Dwalin bathed the wound, and dried it with a clean cloth, and applied a salve to it; and he produced thread and a curved needle from his pack and set to work. It was a marvel that Dwalin could work so deftly with those great paws of his; but he knew how to stitch up wounds, for he had done so many times, and his hands were steady. Helmwyn winced and gritted her teeth, but did not complain, for she trusted Dwalin; and Thorin was watching her.

As he worked, Dwalin gave Thorin a colourful account the previous night’s assault, making sure to dwell on how well Helmwyn had fought. “You should’ve seen her, Thorin! The way she whacked that shield into their teeth – and cool as you please, too. She takes after her aunt!” Thorin grinned, for coming from Dwalin, that was high praise indeed. “And as for the brute who did that,” Dwalin went on, indicating Helmwyn’s head-wound, “he rued the day, I can tell you. That was a nicely executed duck, roll and hamstring sequence – well done!”

Helmwyn gave a wry smile, for she knew Dwalin was exaggerating wildly. “You are kind, Master Dwalin,” said she; “but I doubt I would have fared quite so well without you by my side.”

“That’s as may be,” said Dwalin. “But I wouldn’t say you fought well if you hadn’t. And that kick in the groin – very good timing, that was!”

“You do take after your aunt, my lady!” said Thorin merrily. Helmwyn blushed, but Thorin was beaming with pride.

“There you go, lass,” said Dwalin, cutting off the thread. He grinned at her. “Now you’re bald and scarred, all you need is a couple of tattoos, and you’ll look just like me!”

Helmwyn laughed. “Well should I like to look as fierce as you, Master Dwalin!” said she. “But I fear my beard is no match for yours.” But Dwalin roared with laughter, and pulled her into a bear hug.

Helmwyn thanked Dwalin; and she fetched some more water, and another clean cloth. “But now,” she said, “if you will excuse me, I shall tend the lord Thorin’s wounds.”

“What wounds?” asked Dwalin. Thorin’s face remained carefully blank.

Helmwyn gave Dwalin a pointed look. “That I shall have to find out.” And with that she led Thorin away, and they disappeared into her tent.

“Right,” said Dwalin, and leaned on his hammer. “I’ll just casually hang around here then, and make sure no-one disturbs you.” Dwalin guessed that whatever they were about to do, they needed a little time and privacy to do it in.

***

They put down their weapons, and took off their armour (which took some time, and a little mutual help); and Helmwyn shrugged off her gambeson, and set to work. She helped Thorin out of his shirt and his tunic, and examined his chest and his back. There was some bruising, and in places the pattern of his mail had been imprinted in livid colours on his skin. But there was no severe injury, not even a cracked rib, so strong and hardy was he.

She bade Thorin lie down, and sat astride him; and she dipped a clean cloth in cool clean water, and washed the Orc-blood from his face and his throat. Thorin gladly submitted to her tender - if somewhat pointless - ministrations; but they gazed deep into each other’s eyes, and their hearts were grave, for they knew it was a marvel that they should both have lived through this night unscathed.

Helmwyn kissed Thorin’s throat, and his chest, and ran her hands over his powerful body; but now there were tears in her eyes. But he gently touched her face, and gazed at the bloody gash on her forehead; and he sat up, and pulled her shirt over her head, and folded her in his arms. He sighed with relief to feel her against his heart once more; and they clung to each other, and kissed fervently, and made love with a breathless urgency, well knowing that they had cheated death yet again.

As they lay together, spent and closely entwined and heavy with love, they heard more horns beyond the Wall; but they knew this to mean that yet another _éored_ had arrived, and ignored it. But a little later, they drowsily heard boots crunching on the gravel, and coming to a halt outside the tent; but just as they stirred in alarm, they heard the rumble of Dwalin’s voice:

“Can’t let you through.”

“I wish to speak to my sister.” It was Waldred.

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“The lady is tending the lord Thorin’s wounds.”

Waldred laughed. “Is that what she’s doing? Tending his wounds?” He knew for a fact that Thorin had not taken any. “What wounds?”

“I guess she’s busy finding that out right now.”

“I’m sure she is,” grinned Waldred. “Well, well. Fancy that. My little sister, a healer!”

Waldred’s leer was getting on Dwalin’s nerves. He wanted to head-butt him, and not in a friendly way. Instead, he flexed his muscles and cracked his knuckles, and, though he was a head shorter than Waldred, he contrived to _loom_.

Waldred’s grin widened. “Sister!” he called over Dwalin’s shoulder. “Whenever you’ve finished…ministering to your Dwarf, you might like to come and see Father. He just arrived. Come and tell him your good news, I’m sure he will be thrilled!” He turned away. “Hurry up, or I might tell him myself!”

And with that he walked away jauntily, and amused himself by imagining just what his sister and the Dwarf had been up to.

Inside the tent, Thorin and Helmwyn gazed gravely at each other.

“I believe the time has come to speak with your father,” Thorin said.

***

King Brytta was in the keep; and when they strode through the great doors, he welcomed them both with open arms. “My dear child! Thorin Thráinsson! What a joy it is to see you both hale and unharmed!” he cried; but then he saw the cut on his daughter’s brow. “Child! Are you all right?” Helmwyn assured him that it was nothing, but the King was dismayed, and cautiously kissed her forehead. But he went on: “A scout rode back to us in the night, saying the great horn had been sounded. We came as quickly as we could, which I fear was still too late – but behold! You turned the tide, and the Orcs are scattered, and the harvest and the folk are safe!”

“Aye, Father,” said Helmwyn, “we turned the tide; but none of this would have been possible without the lord Thorin. It was he who laid out our defences; and it was he who led the first assault against the Orcs, and secured the caves!”                      

“And you brought up the rear, did you not? My brave girl,” said the King, and planted another kiss on his daughter’s wounded brow. “But as for you, Thorin Thráinsson!” he roared, and went to clasp Thorin’s arm. “Aye, I have heard all you have done; for Waldred has told me of your deeds.”

Thorin and Helmwyn both turned to stare at Waldred, who merely grinned.

But the King went on: “Not only did you restore the Hornburg to its original greatness, making it once again strong and impregnable. You have fought alongside us, though you did not have to; you led the men to victory, and the legends that go with your name fall short of your true valour!”

And indeed Thorin stood proud and grim, with his bloodied mail and his piercing eyes; and he looked formidable. It was no wonder that the men had followed him.

“The Mark shall yet be safe from the Orcs,” said the King; “and it is you we have to thank for this.”

“Alas, my lord King, this is not over,” Thorin answered. “Many Orcs have fled back into the mountains; and though they are cowed, they are not defeated.”

“Yet their numbers are diminished, and that I count no small victory! Come, I would thank and reward you as you deserve. Is there aught that you would ask of me?”

Thorin looked into King Brytta’s smiling, jovial face. “Aye, indeed there is,” he said. “I have asked the lady Helmwyn for her hand in marriage, and she grants it full willing,” he announced. “We have come to seek your blessing.”

The King’s smile faded. He looked long at Thorin. “I notice you do not ask _me_ for her hand, Thorin Thráinsson,” said he coolly.

“I believe such a lady should rule her own fate,” replied Thorin.

The King turned his gaze on Helmwyn. “And you have consented to this, my daughter?”

“Aye, Father,” answered she; “that I have.”

King Brytta stared at them. Though they had washed away most of the blood, still they stood there in blood-stained battle-gear, with wild hair and drawn faces; and their hands were twined.

King Brytta’s heart rebelled at the sight, though he could not rightly say why. Perhaps it seemed to him that the Dwarf was somehow to blame for the fighting that might well have cost his daughter her life.

“I will speak with my daughter alone,” said he; and his voice was curt.

There was a silence in the keep, and then all soldiers and attendants filed out of the room; and Waldred raised his eyebrows at Helmwyn as he left. Last of all, Thorin stirred; and with a last look toward father and daughter, he turned and slowly walked out of the stone chamber. The heavy doors clanged shut. Helmwyn hardly dared to look upon her father. King Brytta’s countenance, usually so open, was now stern and closed.

She waited for him to speak; but he had turned his back on her, and said nothing. Helmwyn felt her insides tighten with apprehension. This was not going at all the way she had hoped. She cast around for something to say, or do, that might sway her father’s mind; and at last she went down on one knee. “I beg you, Father,” she said, “do not frown upon us!”

The King had begun to pace. “You did not seek my consent,” he grumbled. “Why do you seek my approval?”

Helmwyn heard the petulance in her father’s voice; and felt her anger rising. “And will you not let me choose for myself this time, Father?” she replied. “Did I not once do as you bid? Did I not once agree to wed a man I neither knew nor loved?”

This came as a surprise to King Brytta; for she had never spoken to him of this before. He looked at his daughter. “You were not happy with Theodric?” he asked. “Was he not a good husband to you?”

“I was not _un_ happy,” said she between clenched teeth. Brytta saw the look of reproach in her eyes; and it stung.

He wavered a little, but still he could not accept the wild notion that his own daughter should wed that… that.... “You cannot mean to wed this Dwarf in earnest,” the King said at last. “How could you, my daughter? How could you?”

But Helmwyn bristled. “What is it, Father?” she snarled. “Is the lord Thorin not a suitable match? Is he not a prince, of a line far older and greater than the house of Eorl? Is he not a fearsome warrior, and a great captain? Is he not noble and courteous? Has he not fought as a champion of the Mark, though naught bade him do so, save his love for me? What is it that displeases you? What more do you _want_?”

King Brytta did not know for sure what he wanted; for all the attributes she had listed made the Dwarf seem eligible enough. Indeed, he himself had said much the same a moment before. Perhaps he would have preferred it if his daughter had chosen a husband of her own race. Then again, perhaps it would have made no difference.

“You love this lord?” he asked rather gruffly.

“Aye,” said Helmwyn; “I do.”

The King shook his head. There was no arguing with that.

“This grieves me, daughter,” he said at last; “for if you follow this lord into his northern land, I do not think it likely that I shall see you again.”

“And yet I would follow him,” Helmwyn said.

King Brytta looked long at his daughter. She knelt before him still; but her jaw was set, and her eyes were bright with defiance. And in that moment she reminded him of her mother – his wife; and his mouth twisted in a bitter grimace.

“Is it true his people live in caverns under the mountains?” he asked after a pause.

“Aye, it is true,” Helmwyn answered. “But they do not live in darksome caves, Father. Their halls of old were great and magnificent, and so too shall the lord Thorin’s halls be - in time.”

King Brytta nodded. “In time, you say. But how many years would such labour take?”

Helmwyn’s voice faltered. “I do not know.”

“And yet you would wait for him?”

“And yet I would wait for him.”

The King sighed.

“I would see you happy, my child,” he said at last. “I can see that you love the lord Thorin. But believe me, child, sometimes love is not enough. I know that only too well.” Helmwyn knew he spoke of her mother. “You may love him,” King Brytta went on; “but when you have left the Mark behind, and gone halfway across Middle-Earth to dwell under vaults of stone, will you truly be happy?”

“I do not know, Father,” answered she. “All that I know is that there can be no happiness for me without him.”

***

The doors of the keep were thrown open, and Thorin turned anxiously, and tried to read Helmwyn’s face as she stepped out into the sunlight. Her eyes were reddened, as though she had been weeping; but she nodded to him, and smiled faintly. “We have the King’s blessing,” she said quietly; and he drew her close, and she touched her brow to his.

“I feared for a moment he would deny us,” Thorin said.

“So did I,” Helmwyn answered. “Though I would have gone against his wishes, my father’s blessing means much to me.”

“Then all is well. Do not weep, my love.”

“I am relieved, my lord; that is all,” said Helmwyn with a forced smile. But there was something else that weighed on her heart, though she did not tell Thorin. And she hid her face in his dark mane, and tried not to think of the long wait that lay before them.

***

King Brytta watched them from the keep, standing brow to brow, talking in low voices; and he saw their love, for it was as plain as daylight. His daughter had pleaded and argued and stubbornly stood her ground; and she had won the argument, as she always did, and he had grudgingly relented, as he always did. But his heart was troubled. He had been unable to put into words exactly why he was reticent about this union, for in truth he did not rightly know it; but still he felt uneasy.

“A word, Thorin Thráinsson, if you please!” he called.

***

Helmwyn and Waldred stood on the battlements, and watched men loading the remnants of the burnt Orcs into the hoist, so they could be dumped beyond the Wall.

“You spoke well of the lord Thorin to Father,” Helmwyn said. “Why did you do that?”

Waldred’s armour was not as shiny as it had been; but though he had been shaken by the events of that night, he hid it behind his old-accustomed grin. “Do I need a reason to be nice to my sister?”

Helmwyn gave him a sceptical look. “I am amazed you didn’t take all the credit.”

“Well, he _did_ save my life once or twice,” Waldred said. “And having seen him fight and all, I’d rather not antagonize him. Besides,” he added, “I find the thought of you humping that Dwarf extremely entertaining.”

“Shut up,” said Helmwyn.

“Tell me,” Waldred went on conversationally, “is his prowess in bed anything like his prowess in battle? If so, I’d imagine you’d be very much contented – if rather sore.”

“Shut up,” said Helmwyn, and glowered at her brother.

“Oh no,” said Waldred. “I shall tease you about this mercilessly, for every time you lectured me about milkmaids and tavern-wenches. But I’ll tell you this about your Dwarf…”

_“What?”_

“He’s got a pair of balls the size of the Westfold. I daresay you two are ideally suited.”

Helmwyn had to laugh at this. But then, just for good measure, she drew her dear ridiculous brother into an affectionate scuffle.

***

Thorin walked thoughtfully back to the caves.

He genuinely liked the old King.

In truth, he thought he understood the King’s reluctance. If a cocky young Dwarf were to walk up to him and insolently claim the hand of his sister Dís, he would most likely twist his head off.

Perhaps he ought to have shown some humility, he reflected. But nay - the time for humility was past. He had had more than his fair share of it; but not any more.

He had gone into the keep expecting King Brytta to talk to him, man to man, about just what he and his daughter had been up to; and he had had his answer ready, and would have explained about dwarven marital law at length. But instead, the King had asked him in great detail about the settlement in the Blue Mountains, and the trade and prospects of his folk. Thorin had said that the settlement showed promise – that is to say, he had done his best to make it sound less dismal than it currently was.

The King had looked long and hard at him; and though Thorin perceived that King Brytta thought rather with his heart than with his head, there was a shrewdness in his gaze.

“You claim to love my daughter?” the King had asked.

“I love her, my lord King,” Thorin had answered.

“Then swear to me now – that you shall never raise your hand to her.”

“I swear it.”

“That you shall not trammel or confine or command her.”

“I swear it.”

“That you will never offend, dishonour or betray her.”

“I swear it.”

_“And that you will not keep her waiting too long.”_

Thorin pondered the King’s words as he wandered back into the caves. There was a flurry of activity near the gate in the wall, for men were streaming in, others were streaming out, and yet others were trying to clear the rubble under Hogni’s supervision. The stonemason was in a foul mood, and swore copiously at his charges in the dwarven tongue.

Thorin gave a crooked smile. “That was not so courteous,” he told his companion.

Hogni turned at the sound of Thorin’s voice, and strode up to him. “I’ll give you courteous,” he growled. “I’ve had it up to _here_ with courteous. That was the last straw. You can stay here and shovel up dead Orcs with your new friends if you like; but me and the lads, we’re going home.”

“Aye,” said Thorin calmly; “we’re going home.”

Hogni gave Thorin a long, suspicious look. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“We’re going home,” said Thorin again. “And when we get back, I shall have work for you.”

“Mahal’s beard, what now?” cried Hogni in exasperation. “Don’t tell me I’ll have to get a team of lads together and come back here and train more bloody horseboys!”

“Nay, my friend, you are mistaken,” said Thorin. “When we get back, you shall finally get to build the great halls of Ered Luin. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In truth, the shorn place about the wound was concealed well enough by Helmwyn’s abundant hair; and all that could be seen of the cut was an inch or so of scar below her hairline. And the strands of hair that Dwalin had shorn off were not discarded; but she kept them, and braided them, and gave them to the lord Thorin, and he thereafter ever wore the bloodied braid on his heart, in a locket he had fashioned, in memory of that night.


	41. Chapter 40

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 40**

 

The King and a company of his men rode out of Helm’s Deep; and with him rode his sons Walda and Waldred, the lady Helmwyn, the lord Telramund, and the Dwarves. They stopped at Lindburg on their way back to Edoras, for the Dwarves wanted to take their leave of the lady Ortrud, who had been such a gracious hostess to them during that summer; and the King also wished to see his sister.

The town still showed the scars of the Orc-raid, for many houses stood empty, blackened and gutted by fire. But everywhere the townsfolk were busy squaring timber and putting up posts and beams and thatching roofs; and they greeted the Riders as they rode through the town.

They came at last to the green where the great hall had stood; and they saw that the blackened remains of the old hall had been torn down, and that great posts now outlined the space where the new hall would be raised. The lady Ortrud strode towards them and welcomed them. Her skin was tanned, and her smile was bright, and she seemed as strong and capable as ever. King Brytta dismounted and went to pick her up, laughing.

The others dismounted in their turn, and rested awhile, or went over to the hall to see how the works were coming along. Thorin and Helmwyn walked slowly over the green, and went and stood before the old linden tree. Its crown had been scorched when the hall had burned down; but its lower branches still bore leaves.

“Do you think it will live?” Helmwyn mused aloud.

“It is possible,” said Thorin. “He is a strong old thing. Aren’t you, old friend?” He went and patted the old tree’s grey bark. “But even if he does not make it, I daresay he shall be felled with honour, and made into shields.”

“Aye,” said Helmwyn wistfully. “That would be a good death.”

They sat together under the linden tree as they used to; and they looked out once more on Lindburg, war-scarred but undefeated, and at its busy folk. But they noticed that the shadows had lengthened, and the sunlight was a deeper gold, and they saw that the leaves on the tree were edged with russet; and they both knew that the time had come for the Dwarves to return to the Blue Mountains. Thorin’s heart was heavy, for he knew he would never see that dear place again; and he borrowed Helmwyn’s knife, and began carving their names into the bark of the linden tree.

Helmwyn watched him work for a while; but then a notion came to her. “My lord,” she said, “if we are to be parted so long, I have a favour to ask of you.”

Thorin looked up from his carving. “What is it, my lady?”

“If it be not a terrible breach of dwarven custom, I wish to have your sigil inked into my flesh; just as you bear the image of the mountains you hold dear.”

“Then you must ask Dwalin,” Thorin answered; “for he possesses that skill. But are you sure about this? It is not painless.”

“No more so than being stitched up, I would venture. But I would do this, for such a gift cannot be lost, or stolen; and it shall be a token that I shall be no man’s, but yours alone.”

Thorin was moved by her request; and he reached out and wound a lock of her hair around his fingers. “Then let it be as you wish, my lady,” he said; and he gently tugged at her hair and drew her face close to his.

“What is this I hear?”

The lovers started, and turned to see the lady Ortrud striding towards them across the green, with the King close behind her. She was beaming. Thorin and Helmwyn had barely scrambled to their feet when Ortrud swept them into a crushing hug. “My dears!” she said; “my brother tells me you are to be wed! This is _wonderful_ news!”

King Brytta stood there looking a little sheepish; for what he had in fact been doing was _complaining_ to his sister, and bemoaning this sorry state of affairs. In fact, he was going to ask her what part she had had in this, but now he knew where she stood on the matter.

“We _must_ celebrate!” said Ortrud, releasing the breathless couple. “You _must_ stay tonight. You two _must_ be trothplighted here!”

“But my aunt,” said Helmwyn, “your resources are scant enough at the moment; we do not want to put any strain-”

“Nonsense!” said Ortrud. “What better place than here? Aye, we sleep under the open sky; but we have mead aplenty, and we shall roast some meats, and rejoice in your union, and in your victory at Helm’s Deep! Won’t we, brother?”

King Brytta looked hard done by, and felt as though all his womenfolk were conspiring against him; but it was decided, and there was nothing more to be done about it.

And so it was agreed. Trestle tables were brought out, and casks of mead were opened, and livestock was slaughtered and spitted; and the townsfolk gathered on the green together with the soldiers. And though many were still grieved on account of their losses during the Orc-raid, they did not begrudge this celebration; for they took it as a sign that better days were at hand.

The green became crowded; and those that could find no seat on the benches sat on the grass, and all turned to hear King Brytta speak.

“Eorlingas!” cried he. “You have been strong; and you must be strong a few years more. But today we have cause to rejoice, for this summer has brought a change in the fortunes of the Mark! Many Orcs were slain, and the Hornburg was made fast, and our stores are secure. Aye, Orcs remain in the mountains; and still they will harry us in the seasons to come. But of this at least we can be sure: there shall be no more famine!” The King’s words were greeted with cheers from the crowd. “And of this too we can be sure,” the King went on: “they will not defeat us! We shall starve them out, and we shall cut them down; and they shall dwindle and vanish, and the Mark shall be at peace!” The crowd cheered more loudly; and folk cried _Léofa!_ in honour of their King.

But the King held up his hand to command silence once more. “All of you here know that none of this could have been achieved without the help of the Dwarves. All of you here know what we owe to their skill, and their labour, and their courage.” There was another chorus of cheers. “Thus it is fitting that this glad day be made more glad still! For Thorin Thráinsson, the Oakenshield, Prince of the Dwarves, asks that Helmwyn, Lady of the Riddermark, should be his wife; and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.”

And at that news, the crowd erupted into cheers once more; for all had come to know and respect the lord Thorin, and all wished the lady Helmwyn well. And Thorin and Helmwyn stepped forth, and set hand in hand; and all there drank to them and were glad. Walda was rather doubtful, and so in truth was the King, though he had spoken handsomely for his daughter’s sake. But Ortrud and Telramund cheered, and the men who had fought at Helm’s Deep cheered, and the folk of Lindburg cheered; all who had lived and laboured and trained and fought alongside the Dwarves cheered. Even Waldred whooped and grinned, and Walda glared at his brother, and reluctantly raised his mug.

***

The clear afternoon had faded into evening, and a heavy golden moon hung low on the horizon. The evening was glad, though it was not boisterous; and folk sat on the green, drinking, and speaking in quiet voices.

King Brytta and his kin sat together by the fire; and while a chair had been found for the King, the others sat at ease on the grass. Young Ortlind had fallen asleep with her head in her father’s lap, and Telramund gently stroked her hair, and Ortrud leaned close to him.

The Dwarves sat across from the royal party; but they made no great effort to mingle. Hogni was unimpressed, and scoffed at the betrothal; Anvdari was bemused, Regin was indifferent, and Snorri was blithely unaware of what was going on. Dwalin was nowhere to be seen.

Thorin sat in silence, nursing his drink, and wistfully watching his lady among her kin – golden-haired and handsome and strong, all of them.

“Don’t they remind you of anyone?” he asked Balin all of a sudden.

The older Dwarf considered this, and studied King Brytta and his children. “Let me see. Well-loved old king. Two sons; the strong taciturn one, and the young cocky one. And the headstrong little sister. Ah, yes, that feels somehow familiar.”

Thorin remembered his own kin, as they used to be. “Aye,” said he. “Perhaps that is why I envy them.”

“Well, be that as it may; you’re not marrying the whole lot of them, lad. You’re only marrying her.”

Thorin laughed. “I am content with that.” He gazed across the fire at the lady Helmwyn. She reclined on the grass in her tired riding leathers, and talked animatedly with her father and her brothers. Thorin recalled how she had adamantly refused to wear flowers in her hair; and he smiled. He turned to Balin. “Do you still disapprove?”

Balin was surprised that Thorin seemed to be willing to talk about this in earnest. There was a long silence.

“It’s not that I disapprove,” Balin said at last. “I’m fond of her, I really am. She is brave and clever, and fiercely devoted to you.”

“But…?”

“But it doesn’t matter what I think. How do you think Thráin will react? And the elders? And Dís?”

“We shall have to do our best to persuade them,” said Thorin gravely. “And we shall have to hope my father is having one of his good days when I break the news to him,” he added, so low that none but Balin would hear.

Helmwyn turned to look at Thorin; and seeing that he frowned, she rose, and walked over to him, and sat down beside him, linking her arm in his.

“I see clouds about your brow, my lord,” said she, and gently stroked his forearm. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

“Ah, my lady,” answered Thorin with a crooked smile, “I am both glad and saddened, for this moment is both bitter and sweet.”

“How so?”

“Now we are here together. Alive, hale, and betrothed. In your fair land, among your kin. But soon you and I must part -”

“Aye,” said Helmwyn quietly; “we must part for a while – but not forever.”

“And when we do meet again, you must leave your kin, and your beloved land.”

“But you are even now far from your kin, my lord,” said she; “and yet you have been happy here.” She said nothing of his home, for she knew that the Blue Mountains were no true home to him.

Thorin sighed. “Aye, I have been happy here.”

“And I daresay I too shall find a home among your people, when the time comes,” Helmwyn said.

Thorin reflected that this remained to be seen, for she did not know his kin; but he bit his tongue. Helmwyn looked at him as he stared into the fire, and she was grieved to see the melancholy in his pale blue eyes.

“Come, my lord,” she said. “Let us not sour this, our present happiness, with the thought of grief to come. Let us rejoice in the days that we have left.” But even as she spoke, her heart too was heavy.

Walda watched them, talking quietly with their heads close together. He could understand that a Dwarf might well conceive a brutish lust for a fair young woman like his sister; and he could just about imagine that Helmwyn might be impressed by the little warrior’s eminently _virile_ qualities (though he found that idea a little disturbing). But what truly amazed him was that their bond seemed to be one of tenderness, and understanding; yet that was what he saw. They gazed at each other as though nothing else existed; and his sister whispered something that might well have been _‘I love thee, Thorin Thráinsson’_ , and the Dwarf answered something that looked like _‘And I love thee, Helmwyn, Brytta’s daughter’_ ; and he head-butted her gently, for emphasis.

Walda gave his father a look of utter bafflement; but the King looked resigned.

As for Waldred, had he been in a poetic mood, he might have told them that tenderness and lust were by no means mutually exclusive; but he had wandered off to try his charm on the local girls, and did not share any of his wisdom that night.

***

The Dwarves’ departure from Lindburg was a sad moment for all.

“Farewell, friends,” said the lord Telramund; “for friends I count you – friends of the Mark, and of my house. As for you, Thorin Thráinsson, I do not know whether we shall meet again; but this I will say to you: I am honoured to have had you as my guest, and glad that you fought among us, and saddened by your leaving. Ride now to good fortune!”

The Dwarves took their leave of their host and hostess. And the lady Ortrud hugged Dwalin, and gave him a peck on the cheek; and so did young Ortlind, for she had grown very fond of the huge scarred Dwarf. Dwalin was very subdued thereafter, and did not speak; but as they mounted up and made to depart, Thorin turned in his saddle, and gazed one last time at the green, and the great beams of the unfinished hall, and the fountain, and the scorched boughs of the old linden tree. But then King Brytta rode away, and they followed him out of the gate, and through the town, and out into the plains; and with one last look at the sheltered vale of Lindburg, they turned south-eastward, and made for Edoras.

***

The days that followed were busy for the lady Helmwyn, for she took it upon herself to see to it that the Dwarves’ reward, for both their labour and their bravery, should be as handsome as the Mark could provide.

She ordered new garments made for them, for most of their meagre belongings had been lost in the fire at Lindburg. She also commanded that bales of undyed cloth be given them, of both wool and flax, as well as hides and pelts; for these they would be able to dye, cut, and sell, once they were back in Eriador. And since it looked like the Dwarves were to return with a veritable trading caravan, the lady gave them ponies, fine beasts with handsome manes, that would profit them greatly.

She also gave some horses, though Thorin grumbled that there was no-one to whom he could sell these, save the Elves at the Grey Havens; but Helmwyn told him how much one particular proud and glossy black stallion might fetch in Mundburg, and Thorin relented.

Thorin and Helmwyn decided to tell Balin about the matter of Scatha’s hoard; and Helmwyn watched anxiously for Balin’s reaction whilst Thorin explained to him how the matter stood. Balin chuckled bitterly at the tale, for he too knew of Frám’s contemptuous treatment of his folk; but he saw how shamed Helmwyn was on account of her distant kinsman, and he patted her hand, and said: “It’s all right, lass; I can see you’re trying to make up for it, and that already counts for a lot.”

And so Helmwyn showed Balin the vault; and together with poor Osric, they tried to haggle out a solution that would be acceptable to all. Meduseld’s treasure-vault was paltry compared to what Erebor had been; but it was more than what the Dwarves had in the Blue Mountains. Balin turned his jeweller’s eyes on many things of gold and silver, and often he would nod, and smile sadly, when he recognized the craft of his people. But in the end, he had to be practical. “These ancient things are very pretty, to be sure,” he told Helmwyn; “but there’s no real point giving them to us, except perhaps to soothe our pride; for we’ll only end up chopping them up and melting them down. Nay, keep them, I say; give us coin, and bullion, and ingots, for that is what we need right now.” And Helmwyn saw Balin’s own shame that his people be brought so low; but she did as he bid her, and set aside gold pieces measured by the weight, in payment of their labour.

But secretly, she thought to give them at least a few fair things, as a token of friendship. As for Osric, he was even paler than usual; and he nervously jotted down the Dwarves’ fee in his ledger.

Thorin found himself at a loose end; and he felt restless and despondent. In the end, he wandered down to the forge, for want of anything better to do. The smiths Weyland and Njarl welcomed him as one of their own; and he donned an apron, and rolled up his sleeves, and set to work. Thorin felt at ease in the company of the smiths; and the work helped soothe his fretful mind for a while, as it always had.

***

Helmwyn slipped quietly into the forge. Thorin had taken to spending his days in there; and she knew he liked to work alone in the evenings, even after the other smiths had left. He had missed the evening meal once again, and once again she had decided to go down to the forge to bring him a basket of food. But seeing him so quiet and intent on his work, she did not wish to disturb him; and instead she went to sit quietly in a corner, and watched him for a while.

Thorin was making horseshoes. They were laughably simple things to make, and he had turned out dozens of the things already; but still he kept on working, bending and hammering the hot iron with no less care and skill than if he were making the finest sword. Helmwyn smiled wryly, thinking that there would be horses in the Mark shod by none other than Thorin Oakenshield, and that none would ever know; and she found herself wishing – not for the first time – that he were a simple blacksmith, and that she were his wife, and that royal lines and palaces and other such lofty matters were no concern of theirs. And for the first time, she realised that she wanted to have his children. (1)

The skin on her arm still smarted, where Dwalin had drawn Thorin’s crest with ink and needles – a few inches above her wrist, on the inside of her shield-arm. It had seemed appropriate. She wanted to scratch at it; but it was covered by a bandage, so she just rubbed it and let it be.

She gazed at Thorin again. She thought him beautiful, as beautiful as he had appeared to her in that very same spot, on the day she had understood that she loved him. But now his eyes had a sorrowful look – but nay, she thought; it was the look he always wore, save that his sorrow had been lifted that summer, for a little while. She rose, and stepped behind him; and she put her arms around him, and kissed his throat. Thorin smiled.

“Be careful of the sparks, my lady,” he said, for her forearms were bare. She obediently released his waist, and instead reached beneath his leather apron. Thorin froze for a moment; then he slowly and deliberately put his tools away, and turned around, and pulled her head down to kiss her.

Perhaps it was the anguish of their parting, or perhaps it was the forge, and all the memories that were bound up with that place, or perhaps it was none of those things; but it seemed to Helmwyn that she had never desired Thorin more violently than in that moment. She raked her fingers through his beard, and kissed him hard; and he pulled her into his powerful embrace. He smelled of sweat, and leather, and hot metal, and wood-smoke; and she tore at the laces of his apron, and impatiently pulled his shirt over his head.

There was a sheen of sweat on Thorin’s skin, and it glistened red-gold in the light of the forge. Helmwyn ran her fingers through the hairs on his broad chest, and laid her hand on his heart, and looked deep into his pale, sorrowful eyes. But he picked her up in his strong arms, and sat her upon the anvil, and reached for the hem of her gown; and she fumbled with the laces of his breeches, and pulled him close to her, and dug her fingernails into his shoulders.

And his great hands left soot-marks on her gown; but she cared not.

***

Afterwards they sat curled together at the foot of the anvil, in the dim light of the dying fire. They shared the food and drink that Helmwyn had brought; and at Thorin’s request, she unwrapped the bandages around her arm, and showed him Dwalin’s work. Thorin smiled in approval, though he was strangely troubled to see his sigil etched in hard black ink on his lady’s white skin. They spoke but little, for there was a pall of sadness over them; and at last Helmwyn huddled against Thorin’s heart, and wept. And he gently stroked her hair; but he spoke no words of comfort to her, for in truth he could not think of any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This desire was highly unusual as far as Helmwyn was concerned.  
>  ***  
> A/N: I know, I know, that was totally gratuitous and self-indulgent Sex In The Forge, and I’m not even sorry!!!


	42. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you’ve got your handkerchiefs ready, boys and girls!

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 41**

 

Helmwyn sat and stared unseeing at the parchments on her writing-table. There it lay, neatly consigned, the inventory of the Dwarves’ payment, the reward for their labour.

It was the eve of the Dwarves’ departure, and there had been a half-hearted attempt at feasting; but Helmwyn had been unable to swallow a thing, for anguish tore at her insides, and she could not face remaining with the company when all she wanted to do was scream. And so she had fled soon enough, and retired to her chamber, and dismissed her servants; and she sat at her table, reading through the inventory for the hundredth time, for that was the one thing about this parting that she could control. But the parting was drawing inexorably nearer, and it would come, and she was powerless to hinder it; and she felt hope and happiness trickling through her fingers like water.

There was a knock at the door of her chamber; and the guard opened it, and announced the lord Thorin, and stepped aside to usher him in. Thorin took a few awkward steps into the room. He looked wretched.

“Lady Helmwyn,” said he. “Forgive my visit at this late hour; but I wished to pay you my respects ere I leave.” His manner was formal and stilted, on account of the guard; and he looked anxiously at Helmwyn.

“Thank you, Gunnwald,” said Helmwyn to the guard; “you may leave. Close the door behind you.”

Gunnwald reflected that this was not altogether seemly; but he did as he was bid, and went to stand guard before the lady’s chamber.

As soon as the door had closed, Thorin strode across the room to where Helmwyn sat, and he folded her in his strong arms before she could even rise. Helmwyn threw her arms about his waist, and hid her face against his heart, and Thorin cradled her, and kissed her golden head. But then he smoothed her hair back, and said to her in earnest: “My lady, there is something I must know. Are you with child?”

“Nay,” answered Helmwyn; “at least I do not think so.” Her cycles were irregular at best; but she felt sure that if she were carrying a child, she would have noticed. In any case, it was a little late to worry about that now. “And had I been with child, would you have let me come with you?” she asked.

Thorin shook his head sadly; and she felt angry at him for asking, since it made no difference. “Life in the Blue Mountains is harsh,” said he; “and it will be harsh for some years yet.” Helmwyn felt his voice resonate in his great chest. “For a time I must still live the life of a wandering smith for half the year, and the other half I shall shelter with my folk in draughty caverns, and mine, and shape the stone with such able-bodied workers as are left, until such a time as my halls are fit to be dwelt in. But I will not have you live like this.”

“I would follow you, my lord; you know that. And were you a simple blacksmith, still I would cleave to you,” she said. She looked up at Thorin, and he saw, through her tears, that her eyes were full of reproach.

“Let us not quarrel, my lady; not now,” said he gently. Helmwyn did not want to quarrel, but she felt her anger rising like a tide: anger at his stupid stubborn dwarven pride and his stupid dwarven stone halls. She bit her tongue; but she unwrapped herself from him, and rose, and began to pace.

Thorin could well see that she was fretful, but there was something else he needed to ask her. He had put it off this long, but he could put it off no longer. “My lady…,” he said, “will you promise me one thing?”

“What is it, my lord?”

Thorin braced himself, and plunged on. “Will you promise me that you will not ride out?”

That was the last straw. Helmwyn felt something snap inside her.

“You would have me wait until I am barren and faded?” she said coolly. “Very well, I shall wait. You would not have me ride out? Very well.” She went to grab her sword Fearless where it hung by her armour. “Here,” she said, and shoved the sword at Thorin, “you may as well take it back, since I shall have no more use for it.” Thorin looked hurt, but she went on, her voice rising. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what I _may_ still do, my lord? Would you have me learn to sew? Would you have me learn to cook? Would you have me _spin_ , my lord?” she spat. “I shall certainly have time enough for that. Command me!” And with that she turned her back on him, and wept.

Thorin was dismayed. He could see that this simmering rage was but her grief at their parting, but he knew not how he should speak to her. He put down the sword, and stepped cautiously behind her, and wound a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“I do not command you, my lady,” he said. “I am begging you. Have we not feared enough for each other? Have we not endured enough anguish for each other’s sake? Let us not tempt fate! It is a marvel that neither of us was slain this summer. How could I bear to be half a world away, never knowing whether you still lived or no? I would not lose you, Helmwyn.”

He had spoken her name so gently that she turned around; and seeing him looking so forlorn, her heart broke. They embraced; and she buried her face in his hair, and he held her long, as she shook with bitter sobs.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said. “This parting saps my strength. My courage is spent. I do not know how I shall bear being sundered from you.”

***

Outside the lady’s chamber, Gunnwald heard the lady’s voice raised in anger. He hesitated, not knowing whether to intervene; and he edged closer to the door to listen. But by then the shouting had stopped, and he thought he heard sobbing instead; then that too died down, and there was silence for a long while. Gunnwald wondered vaguely what to do; but then he heard the bolt slide.

He swallowed.

Gunnwald asked himself very seriously whose displeasure he would rather incur: the King’s, or the lady’s, or the Dwarf’s. He decided that of the three, it was the Dwarf who was most likely to inflict grievous bodily harm; and so he decided to exercise caution.

He listened at the door a little longer - long enough to assure himself that the lady had not stabbed the Dwarf, and that the Dwarf had not throttled the lady, but that they were both very much alive, and apparently reconciled; and he stepped away from the door and resumed his guarding, albeit rather nervously.

***

They made love, of course. It was reckless; but though Helmwyn cared not, there was still a splinter of sense in Thorin’s mind that told him how reckless this was. He knew he ought to withdraw; he knew he ought not to have started this. But it _felt_ so utterly right, and his heart told him that it _was_ right – indeed, if anything had ever been right in all his wretched life, it was this. To be as close as only lovers could be; to know this bliss. His lady’s lithe body rose to meet his, and she held him with strong, slender arms, and coaxed him, and stifled her moans in his hair; and he surrendered to her utterly. He always did.

In this only did he not surrender: he could not take her with him.

***

Helmwyn laid her head on Thorin’s shoulder, and trailed her fingertips over the smooth area of skin on his chest, just a few square inches, where the hair had been shaved off, and Dwalin had inked her quatrefoil device over his heart. It was a little angular and dwarven-looking, to be sure, but it was recognisable; and in any case Dwalin had done his sullen best. (1)

Thorin was deep in thought, and played with her hair. But then he smoothed it away from the scar on her brow, and gazed gravely at her. “Should you find yourself with child,” he said, “tell them that we are lawfully wed, according to the custom of my people. Send word to me at once.”

“And then what? Should I come to you?”

Thorin hesitated. “I do not know. I do not think it would be safe for you to travel until the child is born. Nor for a while after that.”

“Think you perhaps that if your dwelling is unfit for me, it would be fit for a little child?”

He looked at her helplessly. “I do not know,” said he again.

Helmwyn was too heartsick and weary to quarrel again. “Curse the stiff necks of the Dwarves,” she said, and stroked Thorin’s beard, and pressed her face against his throat.

They lay closely entwined for a few minutes more; but then Thorin stirred, and sat on the edge of the bed. “I ought to go,” he said. “I should not even be here.”

But Helmwyn sat up, and put her arms around him. “Stay awhile longer,” she said, and kissed his broad shoulders.

“I do not wish to get you into trouble, my lady.”

“What is the worst that could happen, if we are discovered?” said she. “A few stern words from my father, and a hurried handfasting at dawn. But tonight time is short, and I would not waste one moment that I could spend with you.” She stroked Thorin’s hair, and laid her brow against his; and he sighed, and closed his eyes, and fell back into her arms.

***

It was a strange night, long and wakeful, full of desperate tenderness, and sorrowful pleasure. They made love, and held each other close, and made love again; and Thorin crushed Helmwyn to him as though he would print her image on his heart, and she clung to him as though she could hinder his leaving. For hours, in the golden light of the fire, their hands restlessly sought to learn the other’s body, and their eyes to capture every detail of the other’s flesh; and they sought to hold on to each other’s warmth and breath and kiss and scent - to make enough memories to last them the slow, cold years to come.

***

They lay wordlessly in a tangle of limbs, when Thorin suddenly remembered something; and he disentangled himself, and rose, and rummaged among his discarded clothes until he found a little leather pouch. “I made these,” he said as he returned to the bed; and from the pouch he produced two little figures, barely an inch tall. Helmwyn picked them up each in turn, and gazed on them in wonder. The one was a little warrior, grim-faced and bearded and bearing an axe, made of silver. The other was female, and wrought in gold; and she bore a sword and a round shield, and her long hair was tied in a knot. Helmwyn smiled brightly. “Are these supposed to be us?” (2)

“I would say the likenesses are unmistakable,” huffed Thorin with mock indignation; but in truth, he could see her delight. And though she teased him, Helmwyn thought the little figures beautifully wrought, and once more she marvelled that Thorin could work such intricate detail with those great hands of his. She took his hand, and kissed it; and she kissed his eyelids, and said: “How I love you, master smith!” And they gazed at each other fondly, and laughed; and for a while their lovemaking was joyful.

But at last the fire died down, and the night grew old, and weariness and grief began to steal over them once more.

“Is it tomorrow yet?” asked Helmwyn in a whisper.

“Alas, my love; I fear it is,” Thorin answered.

They rose in silence, and dressed, and quietly left the room. Gunnwald was startled to see them, all the more so since he had fallen asleep at his post; but Helmwyn merely nodded to him, and together with the Dwarf she walked away through the silent hall. Gunnwald wondered whether they were eloping, and if so, whether he ought to stop them; but then he decided it was better not to interfere in the lady’s business – or the Dwarf’s.

The lovers stepped out onto the terrace before Meduseld. It was cold, and gusts of wind swept the terrace; but already the eastern sky was grey. Together they stood on that high place, looking eastwards, and waited for the dawn. And as they huddled together in the gloom, they thought on the day of their first meeting; and it seemed strange to them that there had been a time, not so long ago, before they knew each other, before they loved each other, before they became as dear to each other as kin – or perhaps even dearer.

The dawn found them tightly embracing, wrapped in each other’s cloak against the wind; and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling behind them. For a moment the sun’s first rays bathed them in light, and they cared not that folk might see them. But soon the sun was hidden again by clouds, for a cold, blustery day was rising; and they turned away, and hand in hand they went back into the hall for the last time.

*** 

The horns had been sounded, and a crowd had gathered before Meduseld to witness the departure of the King’s strange guests. Word of the Dwarves’ deeds had spread, and the folk of Edoras cheered, and waited for them to step out onto the terrace.

The wind buffeted the hilltop. They waited some more.

They grew a little restless.

Inside the hall, the Dwarves too waited, and King Brytta waited, and his knights and attendants waited, for the lord Thorin and the lady Helmwyn stood a little apart, saying their farewells. They stood with their brows together, and their hands clasped to each other’s heart; and all who were there marvelled that the lady, always so cool, and the lord Thorin, always so stern, were so openly displaying their love and their sorrow, like infatuated children. But those who knew them best knew the grief that was upon them; but it could not be helped.

At last the King and the Dwarves and the royal party walked through the heavy carved doors and into the pale daylight; and the crowd greeted them warmly. Once again King Brytta spoke of the Dwarves’ great labour, and of their great bravery; and once more he praised the lord Thorin, and announced his betrothal to the lady Helmwyn. The folk of Edoras cheered for the sake of their King, but in truth they thought that the lady looked pale, and the Dwarf Prince looked grim, and that no-one on the terrace seemed to rejoice.

Gifts were brought to the Dwarves; for in addition to the gifts of gold and cloth and horses that they had been given as a reward for their labours, the lady Helmwyn had wished each Dwarf to receive a token from Scatha’s hoard. To some she gave brooches, and to others she gave knives; but to Thorin she presented the jewelled cup with which she had welcomed them in this very place a few months before. “Therefore be you not offended that the cup from which we shall drink farewell shall be less rich,” she told the Dwarves. And to Thorin she said: “But I pray you bear the cup of greeting to the lord Thráin, your father; and may it be a sign of friendship between the Blue Mountains and the Mark.” And to Thorin she also gave the great horn, black and bound with silver, that he had worn that summer. “As for this – keep it for now,” she said. “But remember that it is only lent. Promise me that you will return it.”

“I shall keep it safe until we meet again,” said Thorin; and he held the lady’s gaze, and bowed his head.

Helmwyn then offered each Dwarf a draught of mead, and words of thanks for all he had done. By the time she reached Dwalin, her eyes shone with tears again.

“So we’ll be seeing you again soon, lass?” Dwalin said.

Helmwyn smiled through her tears. “I hope so, my friend! I hope so.” She wanted to hug the huge scarred Dwarf, but that would have been unseemly; so she merely squeezed his hand. She then gave the cup to Balin, and said: “I know I have caused you trouble, Master Balin; I hope you can forgive me.”

Balin gave her a long look, but it was not without compassion. In the end, he said: “Perhaps some things are just fated. Who am I to argue with that?” Helmwyn smiled at him gratefully.

But then she came at last to the lord Thorin; and he raised the cup to her, but to him she spoke no words, besides ‘ _Ferthú Thorin hál_ ’, and her voice caught in her throat.

The Dwarves walked down the great stairs from the terrace, and went to their mounts that waited below, along with their escort; and the horns were sounded to herald their departure. They mounted up; and with one last glance at the Golden Hall, and at those that stood before it, they turned and rode away down the hill. They passed out of the great gate, and onto the plains; and there they spurred their mounts, and hastened away north-westward.

Helmwyn stood still as an image carved in stone, and watched them go. The first heavy drops of rain began to fall; and the King’s knights and attendants went back into the hall, and the folk of Edoras filed away. But still Helmwyn stood on the windswept terrace, and looked out over the plains, until Thorin and his company were lost to her sight. And it seemed that she wept; but perhaps her tears were spent, and it was merely the rain.

King Brytta walked up to his daughter, and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “Will you not come inside?”

“I can no longer see them,” she said, and continued to gaze over the wide grasslands. The sky was low and overcast; and the summer was over.

“Come, child. Come inside,” said the King; and he put his arm around his daughter and led her back into the hall.

“I could still catch up with them,” she said in a hollow voice. “If I left now, and made haste, I could still catch up with them.”

But she did not go, and the King saw that her head was bowed; but instead she went slowly back to her chamber. She closed the door behind her, and staggered to her bed, for she reeled with grief. She collapsed onto the bed. It still bore the lord Thorin’s scent. Her skin still bore his scent. Helmwyn curled up on the bed they had shared, and whimpered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Dwarves had little to do in those last few days, and so Dwalin had obliged; but he had also been rather sullen of late, so it was better not to say anything.
> 
> (2) The little figures did look rather like Generic Dwarf and Generic Shieldmaiden, but it was still a sweet thought.
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: So, boys and girls, are you all bawling your eyes out?
> 
> Well, it wouldn’t be Middle-Earth without a Stupidly Long Engagement, now, would it? I vaguely recall that Aragorn’n’Arwen managed a few decades without actually seeing each other. How do you think our protagonists will cope with the whole long-distance relationship thing? Will they keep their troth? Will they freak out? Will they marry someone sensible instead? Stay tuned!
> 
> Oh, by the way, the little shieldmaiden figure is a real archaeological find. Try googling the Hårby Valkyrie. She is so gorgeous that I simply had to work her in, and give her a mate. ;-)


	43. Chapter 42

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 42**

 

Thorin’s company made slow progress, on account of the ponies and pack-horses laden with chests of treasure and bales of cloth; and violent gusts of autumn wind lashed heavy raindrops into their faces. The Dwarves pulled their hoods down lower.

They had been given an escort, for there were but few of them to defend their caravan, and they would be vulnerable to attack during the long crossing of Dunland. The land was lawless; and a trading-caravan of Dwarf merchants would be tempting prey to the savage folk that dwelt there. But the Dunlendings feared the Riders of the Mark; and so Amleth had asked the Dwarves to be their companion once more, at least until they reached the borders of Eriador.

As they rode, Thorin half-expected to see the lady Helmwyn appear on the crest of a hill, and come after them, swift as the wind on her tall grey horse; and he would be so glad to see her that doubted he would have the strength to ask her to turn back. But then they passed the image of the white horse carved on its limestone hill, though now the hill seemed almost as grey as the low, frowning sky; and still she did not come. And they rode through the Gap of Rohan, and past the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and Thorin thought anxiously that if she did not come now, perhaps she would not come at all.

When they had been a week underway and were in deepest Dunland, Thorin prayed that she would not come alone to this inhospitable land whose folk were only half subdued, and hated the Eorlings. But still he held on to the hope that she might come – with an _eored_.

When they had been two weeks underway, Thorin told himself that she had not come because she had conceived, and dared not harm the child; but although that thought cheered him a little, he reflected that she might at least have sent a messenger after them.

By the time they had been three weeks underway, Thorin had resigned himself to the fact that she had not come because he had bidden her not to come. He rode in silence, and his face was grim, and his jaw was set; and his wild hope was spent, and he knew he would have to face the joyless years that stretched ahead of him manfully. And he knew that this was his own doing.

***

In the days that followed the lord Thorin’s departure, Helmwyn did not leave her chamber. She did not leave her bed. She hardly ate, but slept long; and when she did not sleep, she lay in the dark staring at nothing. Hot tears ran from her eyes almost continually, but it was not weeping as such – that required energy, and she had none left.

King Brytta became concerned; but there was little he could do, save sit by her bedside and pat her hand ineffectually. He was relieved when Walda rode through Edoras again on his way to the Westfold, for brother and sister had always been close, and he hoped Walda might be able to lift Helmwyn out of her misery. So Walda went in to Helmwyn’s darkened chamber, and sat by her bedside, and patted her hand ineffectually.

He saw that she was clutching her sword. He peered more closely at it in the gloom. It had a strange, barbaric look to it. Walda became concerned.

“Is that the sword he made for you?” he asked, in the voice he used when his son was sick.

Helmwyn merely clutched the sword more tightly, and wept. Walda did not know what to do, so he smoothed back his sister’s hair.

“Oh, brother,” she said at last. “There is a gaping void in my chest, as though my heart had been torn out.”

Oh dear, thought Walda. He patted her shoulder. “You shall see him again. It will seem like no time at all.”

Helmwyn thought about that, and seemed to calm down. “Perhaps you are right, brother. Perhaps I shall have cause to join him sooner than expected.”

“What mean you?” asked Walda. He furrowed his handsome brow, but the thoughts slotted into place eventually. “You weren’t…lovers, were you?”

“Of course we were lovers,” Helmwyn replied. “Don’t be naïve.”

Walda was incensed. What he had feared had come true after all. “Had I known this I should have given him a bloody nose to remember me by!” he cried. He had a vivid image in his mind of the swarthy, prognathous Dwarf humping his fair sister; and he found it repellent.

Helmwyn watched her brother pacing up and down, and sighed. “Then you might as well give me a bloody nose, for it was I who started this.” Walda’s jaw dropped. “I did not leave him much choice in the matter,” she added with a fond smile. Walda stared at her as though she had gone mad. “And don’t stare at me like that. You of all people should understand.” Walda had rather insensitively flaunted his domestic bliss over the years.

“Have you quite forgotten yourself?” he said, aghast. “You are the King’s daughter! You bear the responsibility for your own honour, and for the honour of our house!”

“Aye,” said Helmwyn drily. “And you and father have already sold me off like a prize mare once. But have no fear, brother; the lord Thorin is a stallion of the very highest pedigree.”

Walda could not believe his ears. He had never known his sister to use such coarse language (1). Helmwyn could see that he was going quite puce in the face.

“Do not fret, brother,” she said wearily. “We are wed.”

“There has been no ceremony!” Walda spluttered. “No formal announcement!”

“We are wed according to the laws of his people; and believe me, brother, the Dwarves have _many_ more laws than we do.” Well, she hoped this were the case, at any rate. The lord Thorin had seemed sure, and she had to trust that he knew what he was doing.

“And you trust him to come back for you?” asked Walda, “After you have given him everything?”

Helmwyn gave her brother a wan smile. “He wants to build me halls of stone. The fool.”

***

The Dwarves were almost as taciturn and sullen on the way back as they had been on their outward journey, although each had his own reasons, and these no longer necessarily included mistrust of the Riders.

In truth, though he was often deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, and spoke little, Thorin encouraged the Riders to talk, especially Amleth. He had grown to like the captain, and gladly listened to him speak of the Mark when they rode or made camp. He listened to Amleth’s tales of the Kings of the Mark, Eorl and Helm and the rest, and he heard accounts of the wars against the Dunlendings, and of feats of horsemanship, and the slaughter of Orcs. And he was content merely to hear the men speak of the lives they lived in their homesteads, raising their livestock and harvesting their crops. It reminded him of the talk he had heard in Lindburg or in Meduseld, in the evenings, when folk gathered on long benches by the fire, and drank in fellowship. Thorin mused that he must have fallen half in love with the Riddermark, too.

But the Rider’s way with horses was something Thorin very much doubted he would ever learn. One of the trials they had to endure during the long ride back was the temper of the black stallion – the one Helmwyn had said would fetch a high price. Had he not been so valuable, Thorin would probably have suggested that they eat him; for the beast was a demon. He was surly and bad-tempered; he was too proud to bear any load; and he was a biter.

“Aye, he’s a temperamental one, that one,” said Amleth, as Thorin struggled to tether the beast for the night. He had to be tethered away from the other horses, lest he bite them until he drew blood.

“Temperamental?” said Thorin. “He is vicious!”

“You should try talking to him, my lord,” said Amleth. “The _mearas_ are intelligent beasts; and a few words are often enough to soothe them when they are fretful.”

Thorin considered this. “How does one say ‘pain in the arse’ in the tongue of the Mark?” he asked.

Amleth laughed. “I believe the word you are looking for is _endwerc_ , my lord.”

“That is a fine-sounding name for a horse! So Endwerc it is,” said Thorin brightly, and made to pat the great black beast. He pulled his hand away just in time. “Now you watch yourself, Endwerc. I was going to sell you to the Elves, and for a pretty penny too; but I am sure I can devise something even worse.” He managed to grab hold of the horse’s bridle and to hold his head still long enough; and he whispered a phrase that Helmwyn had taught him into the beast’s hairy ear: “Behave yourself, or you’re stew.” (2) The horse twitched its ears, and gave him a baleful look. “I knew you and I would get along,” said Thorin amicably.

***

By the time Waldred came to visit, Helmwyn had improved a little. She had washed, and made it as far as the daybed. (3)

“Sister!” called Waldred jauntily. “I hear you sicken and pine for your Dwarf!” He sauntered into her chamber, pulled up a chair, and sat down by his sister’s side. “You look terrible,” he said. She did.

“Good to see you too, brother,” said Helmwyn tonelessly.

“Strange. You weren’t that upset when that stupid handsome husband of yours went and got himself killed.”

Helmwyn glared at her brother. “Did you have to bring _that_ up?”

Waldred ignored that. “Sister. As your loving brother, it is my duty to tell you that you are wallowing in self-pity. It is not a pretty sight. How long do you intend to mope around like this?”

“He bade me not to ride out,” she sighed. “What shall I _do_ with myself?”

“I know what _I_ would do with myself if my lover were gone. You should try it. It would cheer you up.”

“Shut up. I am really not in the mood for your quips, brother,” said Helmwyn wearily.

“I noticed.”

“I need him,” she said. “I need him like the earth needs the sun! But now he is gone, and winter is upon me; and I do not know when the spring shall come again.”

Waldred thought about it. “You wax poetic, sister. But that is a singularly unfortunate way of putting it.”

“How so?”

“I am trying to picture a small, black, frowning sun.”

Waldred was pleased to see he had managed to bring a pale smile to his sister’s pale face.

***

The Blue Mountains were wreathed in mists when they reached them at last. Perhaps they were called the Blue Mountains on account of the dark forests that covered them. Hardwood trees grew on the knees of the mountains; and their leaves had already taken on their tawny autumn hues, though they looked drab and dirty in the grey light of that drizzly day. But little by little, as the mountains rose, those leafy groves gave way to dense woods of pine and fir; and from a distance, the heights seemed blue indeed.

“This is where we shall say farewell, my friend,” Thorin told Amleth.

“Are you quite sure of this, my lord?” Amleth asked. “My task is to protect you; and I would not turn back now, only for you to be set upon by brigands on your doorstep!”

Thorin smiled, and shook his head. “This is a sleepy corner of the world; and the most dangerous fellows I ever encountered on these roads were a bunch of riders from the south, armed to the teeth.”

Amleth too smiled at the recollection. “It is as you wish, my lord; though for my part I should have been glad to see your halls.”

“And I should have been glad to welcome you,” Thorin answered. “But I fear that if you come to my halls, you shall be trapped there for the whole winter. Nay, my friend. But you shall come to my halls, if you will, when the lady Helmwyn comes hither.”

“Gladly shall I bring her to you! But until that joyful day, let us part for now,” said the Captain. “Farewell!”

And with that he turned his horse around, and led his _eored_ away southward; and a little while later, across the vale, the Dwarves heard the horns of the Riders sounded, one last time; and Thorin raised Helmwyn’s black horn to his lips, and blew three blasts in farewell.

The Dwarves rode on in the fine rain, and soon they struck familiar paths, and rounded familiar hills; and the road wound upwards from the valleys, snaking up mountains that grew ever more steep and craggy. At last a great bay opened before them, a sheltered valley beneath a stark cliff-face; and the Dwarves had come home.

His ‘halls’, Amleth had called them. In truth, Thorin had not wished the Riders to come all the way to his halls because he was ashamed.

The lower reaches of the cliffs, where they formed stepped hills, were honeycombed with dwellings hastily carved out of the rock. There were lean-to sheds propped against the rock-wall, wooden huts and ramshackle outbuildings erected on the gentler slopes. It looked like an anthill. It looked like a miserable village of men. In Erebor, even the poor had lived better than this.

Thorin and his companions rode up the track that led towards the heart of the settlement, the great cliff-face where the King’s halls were. Nay, where they would be. These were no halls; just a few crude, dim, smoke-filled chambers. 

And Thorin told himself that he had made the right decision in asking his lady to wait.

Folk were coming out to stare at the company that rode up the path with ponies and horses laden with goods. They looked weary and haggard, his long-suffering people; but they also looked proud and defiant, and nodded in respect as they saw their prince return. Evidently his summer had been a profitable one. Thorin felt the burden of responsibility for these folk; the weight of it on his shoulders was as heavy as a royal mantle.

They stopped at the foot of the cliff; and Dwarves took the reins of Thorin’s pony, and let him dismount, and clapped him silently on the shoulders. They knew he brought wealth. They would buy grain, and salt meat, and pickled vegetables from the folk of Eriador. They would eat well this winter. (4)

Thorin looked up at the cliff-face. It was sandstone, streaked with red; and in the rain it looked as though it were stained with blood. What a wretched place, thought Thorin. But he would have to make it a home. He _would_ make it a home. For the sake of his people, and his lady, and his house. Thorin sighed.

Balin wandered up behind him. “Go on in, laddie,” he said. “Go and greet your father. He will be glad of your return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Except when she swore at the troops. 
> 
> (2) NB: Helmwyn had taught Thorin the phrase, but that is not to say that she threatened to turn him into stew. She threatened Wísbraec, of course.
> 
> (3) Yes, I know, Helmwyn is being pathetic. In fact, if there had been Cookie Dough ice-cream in Middle-Earth, she would be eating it out of the pot. Even shieldmaidens get the blues.
> 
> (4) Because of the straitened circumstances in the early years of the settlement in Ered Luin, the Dwarves had exceptionally agreed to pool most of their meagre incomes into a common purse, to purchase food and other necessities, and to ensure the survival of the community. Since Dwarves are very much attached to the concept of private property, this says something about the extent of their predicament.


	44. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This week, boys and girls, we meet the Durins.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 43**

Thorin stood before his father.

Thráin’s chamber was rough-hewn, and chill, and dim, lit only by a smoky brazier and a smoky lamp; and Thráin himself sat in the gloom, a hulking figure in a matted bear-pelt. But then, Thráin liked it in the dark. Dís stood behind her father’s chair, sombre and proud. Thorin felt their three eyes bore into him.

It was not going well.

Thorin decided to try the prestige argument. “The fortunes of the House of Durin have gone ill in recent years,” he said, as persuasively as he could. “Such a match would restore its pride; for after all the lady is nobly born, the princess of a strong people that would make good allies-”

“Are we then brought so low that we must wed with the daughters of Men to raise ourselves?” boomed Thráin. “I too have heard of these folk of whom you speak. In the days of my grandfather they were northern savages, and are but little better than that now!” He held his son in his withering gaze. “Perhaps think you to restore our greatness in the eyes of the world; but the world will laugh, my son, and jeer, and call us worse names than they do already!”

“So let them laugh, if they find aught to laugh about!” replied Thorin. “Since when do we care what other folk call us? They may despise us; but they will trade with us all the same. And now we have gold, Father! We have gold again. And even those who despise us shall now bow before you, and call you lord.”

“Aye, that is very well!” said Thráin with a sneer. “But do not hope to lull me with talk of gold. And do not change the subject. Do you think my mind is asleep? Perhaps yours is. Aye, these wild uncouth folk gave you gold; and for that you will agree to wed one of their women? Is the heir of Durin so easily bought?”

“I earned that gold with the strength of my arms and the sweat of my brow!” shouted Thorin.

“Is that how you earned it?” said Thráin nastily.

“You would bring shame and ruin upon the line of Durin?” said Dís, and stepped from behind her father’s chair. She was young, and would have been fair, with her proud bearing and her heavy black braids. She would have been fair, but for the scars that marred one side of her face. Half her beard had been singed away; and the burned flesh was painful to look upon. Any other woman would have mourned her beauty, and covered her face; but not so Dís. She did not attempt to hide these scars, but wore them with pride, in memory of the day the dragon came.

She had been but a dwarfling then; and Thorin had watched her like the apple of his eye during their exile. But now her look was stern, and her words had Thorin stung to the quick. He looked upon his sister in disbelief.

“You dare say that to me, sister?” he hissed. “To _me_? After all that I have done to avenge our people? After all that I have done to uphold the pride of our house?”

“Aye, that I do.” Dís looked upon him with cool pity in her eyes. “And to think,” she said, “that _you_ were the one who was always telling me of the greatness of our line, and the history of our people, and of the wealth and magnificence of the lost kingdom under the Mountain!”

“I had hoped to give you strength, sister, and purpose, and courage to fight on. But I see now that you have become so haughty that you will not be satisfied until you are Queen under the Mountain yourself!”

“And you, brother! You would betray your own house, your own kin-”

“How _dare_ you speak to me of betrayal?”

“-and all for what?” Dís went on, with venom in her voice. “A beardless, flat-chested creature who smells of horse?”

“Have a care!”

“A short-lived human whore-”

“I shall have your beard for that!-”

“OUT!” thundered Thráin. “Both of you! Get out of my sight! Get me Balin!”

***

But Balin did not come at once. He hovered near the entrance to Thráin’s halls, and heard the shouting; and as Thorin came storming out, he followed him to the shed where the ponies had been stabled.

“What are you doing, laddie?” he asked as he ran after his prince.

“What do you think I’m doing?” said Thorin, rearranging his saddle-bag. “I’m leaving. What should I do with this?” He held up the jewelled cup of welcome. “Should I bring it back, or shall I leave it here as a grand, empty gesture? Just wait until my father finds out it is from Scatha’s hoard,” he said darkly.

Balin was dismayed. “You’re not seriously considering this? You would give up your birth-right, sever your ties with your house?”

“It seems I must.” Thorin gave a bitter smile. “I was so sure of myself. I made her promises. And now I shall go back, even less than I was, and ask whether she will still have me. Oh, I do not doubt that she will; but whether her father will have me, that remains to be seen. But after all he is said to be a generous man; perhaps he will be glad to have a former prince of the line of Durin in his service.”

“ _Service_?” spluttered Balin. “You’re going to offer him your _sword_?”

“What else have I got?” said Thorin. “My sword, and the strength of my arms. But what I have done for gold, I shall now do for love and fealty. I daresay they will still have need of me to hunt Orcs in those mountains.”

“Thorin, listen to me,” said Balin quickly. “Don’t do anything rash. I know you love the young lady. But consider that she will live only another thirty, perhaps forty years!”

“All the more reason not to waste any more time.”

“But would you cast away all that you have been, all that you could be, for her sake?”

“Do not think it does not grieve me, Balin. You know, better than any other, how much I care for our people, and for the honour of our house. But I will NOT throw her over for the sake of dead custom, or stubborn pride, or blind prejudice! And as for what I could be, that we shall have to see; but as for what I _am_ , I am her husband, whether or not the words were spoken. That cannot be undone.” Thorin untethered his pony and made to lead him out of the stables.

“Thorin! Thorin, wait!” pleaded Balin. “Let me speak to your father.”

“I’ve spoken to him already. You might as well bang your head against a cliff, for all the good it will do you.”

“You have to use a little diplomacy, lad.”

“Try your silver tongue on him if you will” Thorin growled; “but you failed to convince me, and I very much doubt you shall sway him. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Balin threw up his hands. “I’m not on anybody’s _side_ , lad. I want things to run smoothly, and I want Thráin to be happy, and I want you to be happy. I just don’t want you to do anything you might regret later.”

“If I do not wed her, I shall carry the regret to my grave. You know that.”

“Aye, I know that. But surely it would be better to wed her _here_ instead of storming off to Rohan?”

Thorin gave him a long look. “If you think you can make this happen, you are welcome to try.” He sighed. “My father’s moods are so unpredictable, you may well have more luck with this than I did. But know that if you do not succeed in changing his mind, I shall leave, and not turn back.”

“Understood, laddie. Understood.”

“Just make sure you get him on his own,” Thorin added. “I fear my sister will only poison him against me.”

And so Balin went back inside to try to pacify Thráin; and to his shame, Thorin found himself thinking that, before he met the lady Helmwyn, he would have thought no differently on this matter than his father, or his sister.

***

“You know how stubborn he is,” said Balin.

Thráin stormed and raged and actually tore at his beard, and loudly cursed the stiff necks of the Dwarves.

“And you know where he gets it from,” Balin went on.

Thráin turned on him, and glowered. “Are you saying I should let him wed this girl just because he is more pig-headed than I am? Over my dead body!” he shouted. “And by the time _I_ ’m cold, _she_ will have died three times over!”

Balin did his best to sound patient. “If he does not wed her, he will not wed at all.”

“It were better my line end with him, that our noble blood be mixed with that of a lesser race!” bellowed Thráin.

“But my King, the lady’s people are strong, and honourable, and warlike.”

“They are little more than barbarians!”

Balin considered this. It was not untrue. “They are untainted by elvish influence, certainly,” he said diplomatically.

But Thráin was fuming like a slumbering volcano. “It is a dark day when the heir of Durin wishes to waste himself on a daughter of Men!”

“My King, I beg you, for the sake of your house: do not fight him over this, or you shall lose him.”

“I have lost a son already! Must I lose him too? And over this?” Thráin stopped pacing, his formidable nose only an inch from Balin’s. “You were there, you saw it happen,” he rumbled dangerously. “Why did you not stop it?”

“And what could I have done?” said Balin, though in truth he had often asked himself the same question. “What could anyone have done?”

“She must be a rare wench indeed to have so turned my son’s head,” muttered Thráin. “If she was hoping for gold, she’ll be sorely disappointed!” The Dwarf King gave an ugly laugh.

Balin shook his head. “That’s not how it was. Though your son was quite unschooled in matters of the heart, the lady has not that artfulness, nor that greed. It was all very innocent. I think they themselves were the last to know. And besides,” he added in an undertone, “her people have more gold than we currently do.”

Thráin’s one eye flashed in the gloom. “Think you perhaps that we need gold more than we need our pride? Nay, Balin; we may have endured hardship and exile, but we have never forgotten who we were – until this day! Cursed be the day when we forget who we are; for then shall we truly dwindle and vanish!” cried the King, his voice ever more desperate.

“My King,” said Balin, “I myself shared these very same fears when I saw what was happening. But I now know the lady, and have seen her and Thorin together; and I…I have changed my mind.”

Thráin stared open-mouthed at Balin. “Am I to believe what my ears tell me, Balin? Of all my oldest, most trusted counsellors, you would have me _approve_ this match?”

Balin thought long before answering; but at last he said: “I say you should give him your blessing.”

Thráin let out a sound that was halfway between a roar and a wail. He sounded like a wounded animal; and that frightened Balin more than all of the bluster the King had shown a moment before.

“Will you not hear my reasons?” Balin asked gently.

Thráin let himself fall heavily into his chair. “Name your reasons,” he said in a hollow voice.

Balin swallowed. “Give them your blessing, my liege. Not because the lady is a daughter of kings, from a proud house, and an ancient one by the reckoning of Men. Not because she is wise, and brave, and tireless in the defence of her people. Not because she has shown courtesy and friendship to our people, when all others looked down on us. Not even because she has a noble and generous heart, and knows the burdens of rule. Give them your blessing, for the sake of the love these two have for each other. Ever since the dragon came, Thorin’s brow has been clouded with cares. And in the Mark, for the first time, I saw those clouds truly lift.”

“Are you saying she makes him forget his duty to his people?” shouted Thráin.

“I am saying she can help him shoulder it,” said Balin.

Balin saw that a change came over Thráin; but it was not the change he had hoped for. The King suddenly looked broken, and old, and shrunken; and there was a tremor in his hands. He began to weep, and tugged at his beard again, and cried in anguish: “Alas, Frerin! Frerin, my boy! Where are you? You shall be King after me! Frerin! Come back!”

Balin looked on, aghast to see the King in such a state; while outside the chamber Thorin stood, and listened to every word. He hid his face in his hands.

“I hope you are pleased with yourself,” spat Dís, and went back inside to comfort her father.

***

When at last she found out that she was not with child, Helmwyn hung her head. She felt hollow, but the tears did not come. Perhaps she had none left. She foresaw that the fallow times ahead would be counted in years. And so she rose, on shaking legs, and began to pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *from behind the sofa* Please don’t hate me! I know how much everyone loves a closely-knit and supportive Durin family. But I just couldn’t see them being too relaxed about this… and of course, Thráin is bonkers. We’re talking King-Lear-running-around-on-the-heath-half-naked-bonkers. And the Ring of Power isn’t helping.


	45. Chapter 44

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 44**

 

The first year, Helmwyn grieved as though she had been widowed.

In truth, she grieved more than when she had indeed been widowed; or perhaps it was because this time she could not seek refuge in warlike deeds, as she had done before.

Her father pitied her, her kin pitied her – everyone in Edoras seemed to pity her; but mingled with their pity, she perceived a feeling that her love was strange, and a hope that this aberration would soon be over. She may have been grieved, but she chafed at being treated as though she were made of glass, or not quite in her right mind. And so she rose from her daybed, clad herself in riding-garments, and left for the Westfold; and she would not be gainsaid.

She took her armour, because the roads were not safe; and she took a bag of plain woollen garments, because she would not need fine raiment. She took all the parchment she could lay her hands on; because in the Westfold, in autumn, that was hard to come by. And she took all that she had left of the lord Thorin: a sword he would not let her use, a little silver figure of a Dwarf, a lock of his hair that she kept in a box, and a mark on her shield-arm.

She made for Lindburg, of course, for she loved the place, the more so now as the memory of the lord Thorin was so strong there; but the comfort it brought her was bittersweet. Yet it was there that she felt she might make herself the most useful; and her aunt welcomed her with open arms, and bade her stay the winter.

Helmwyn had a plan. It would have been unlike her not to have a plan. She rode out into the Westfold, with sword and armour, and a company of horsemen; but it was not to hunt, nor even to patrol. Her intention was to make a census; to record the name of every hamlet of the Westfold, along with the name of every villager, and how many heads of cattle they owned, and how many acres of land they tilled. The task was immense; but she felt it necessary, to keep track of exiles and refugees, to manage the food supply, to ensure that the stores at Helm’s Deep were gathered and redistributed fairly. The work had been begun that summer, with Balin’s and Snorri’s help, and Helmwyn thought she might as well use her time to finish it. After all, she now had a great deal of time on her hands.

And she told herself, and everyone else, that she was not riding out. Not as such. But if a band of Orcs should cross their path, they would be able to defend themselves. It did not last long, however, until there was a rather nasty brush with a Warg; and when Helmwyn’s kin urged caution, this time she thought of the lord Thorin, and relented, and agreed to keep herself safe for his sake. And so she hung up her armour, and Fearless beside it; and grew listless and angry. Fighting had always been her way of coping. It had been her way of dealing with her husband’s death; it had been her way of facing the plight of the Mark; it had been her way of allaying the fear she had felt on account of the lord Thorin. But now that she was stripped of that, she felt lost. She hardly knew who she was anymore. What was a shieldmaiden who did not fight?

But Helmwyn needed to keep herself busy, and so she tried to help as best she could. There was still much to be done around the new hall before the winter; but Helmwyn had no practical skills, besides fighting and writing. She watched, and learned how things were done; there were roofs to thatch, and skins to clean, and if she could do nothing else, she could always muck out the stables and groom the horses. And she badgered the captains who rode out to bring her detailed reports; and she badgered the common soldiers for accounts of their native homesteads; and in the evenings she compiled all the scraps of information she had gathered into the Book of Doom. She called it that because of the sheer size of the thing, and because it made her spectacularly ill-humoured – the information was scarce, or contradictory; and it was a constant reminder that she was confined to the estate.

Not that the folk of the Mark went abroad much during the winter months, save for the patrolling Riders. The folk of Lindburg stayed indoors, and the new hall was a warm and merry place that winter; and Halfdan the bard was there, and wintered with them. Normally, Helmwyn would have liked nothing better than a winter of song and laughter spent among her beloved kin in Lindburg; but all the laughter and the song had gone out of her. She would sit on her own in her corner, and listen distractedly; and when Halfdan teased her, and bade her sing, she merely shook her head, and stared into the fire again. But when the old bard began singing _The Linden-Tree_ , Helmwyn wept; for now at last she understood the deep longing and the terrible sadness of which the song spoke.

She still shared a room with her cousin Ortlind; and often at night the girl would silently watch as Helmwyn played with the little silver Dwarf the lord Thorin had made, or took the lock of his dark hair out of its casket, and wound it around her fingers, as he had liked to do with hers. His hair was not coarse and wiry like that of other Dwarves; it was thick and flowing and lustrous. In those moments Helmwyn would smile, for she remembered that he had been very reluctant to part with it, for cultural reasons that she had not rightly understood; but he had yielded in the end. She remembered that pleading, boyish look he sometimes had, glancing up at her from beneath those stubborn dwarven brows of his.

And then she would put the lock of hair away, and blow out the candle, and lie awake in the dark. Her body was starved of the lord Thorin’s warmth; but of course, since she shared a chamber with her cousin, there was nothing she could do about this. She would curl onto her side, and close her eyes, and remember trailing her fingertips along the line of hairs that ran down his hard muscular belly, over his navel, and beyond. She would remember the tender skin of his throat, and the dark velvet of his voice, and his strong, gentle hands; and she would not be able to find sleep.

Helmwyn grew restless that winter, for she had never taken well to being cooped up; and since the outdoor work was done, she trained, even though that had become rather pointless. She tried her hand at archery for a while, but gave that up in the end, because she knew that no amount of patience would ever let her master the bow. Skilled bowmen were rare; but she was a liability. She took Wísbraec out on short, unadventurous rides, to exercise him; but he appeared to sulk, not understanding why she never took him hunting on the plains anymore. She took part in the sparring when men trained on the green; but she felt that they were being cautious with her, and stayed their blows. Perhaps her aunt or uncle had threatened them with unpleasant retribution if they bruised her, or broke her nose.

In the end, she took to training with her cousin Ortlind. The girl was unlikely to break her nose; but she was now at an age where she required relentless drilling if she was ever to overcome her natural timidity. Helmwyn felt that Ortrud was too indulgent of her daughter, so decided to take charge of her herself. Every morning she would drag the girl out onto the green, even when it snowed; and even though Helmwyn was demanding, and Ortlind was timid, a strange new bond grew between the cousins. Ortlind spoke as little as ever, but neither did she complain; and though at first she let her wooden sword be knocked from her hands, Helmwyn could see that the girl watched, and learned fast. Helmwyn was pleased with that. And then, perhaps for want of anything better to do in the evenings, or perhaps largely out of mischief, she took it upon herself to teach her cousin to read.

But unless the weather were truly foul, Helmwyn would often go and sit on her own beneath the old linden tree. She would nestle among its roots, and lean against its trunk; or she would run her fingers over its grey bark, and trace the runes that the lord Thorin had carved therein on the day he left Lindburg, in dwarven runes she could not read. Her beloved Riddermark was still the same – nay, in many ways it was safer and more hopeful that it had been for a long time. And even though Lindburg had suffered, the place had been rebuilt, and the folk were busy, and the land would flourish again. She knew this. She saw this. And yet to her there was something missing, for the lord Thorin was now lacking in her world. He, who had seemed so strange at first, so much at odds with that place. He, who had become bound up with that place, and whose brooding presence still lingered there.

On one such day, when a pale early spring sun shone on the remaining patches of snow that dotted the green, the lady Ortrud came out to find Helmwyn as she sat under the tree, huddled in her cloak.

“Aren’t you training with Ortlind?” she asked.

“I told her to go and chop wood. She has good reflexes, but she needs to build up her strength.”

Ortrud laughed heartily. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were grooming her to take up your mantle when you are gone.”

“And what mantle would that be?” asked Helmwyn.

“That of chiefest pain in the neck of the whole Riddermark,” said Ortrud with a grin, bent down, and planted a sonorous kiss on Helmwyn’s head.

Helmwyn smiled ruefully. “Forgive me, my aunt. I fear I have not been very good company. I have become like a sprig of ivy. I have clung to my oak-tree; but now that he is gone, I wither, for I find I can no longer stand on my own.”

Ortrud sat down next to her niece, and put an arm around her. “But my dear girl!” she said, “he is not dead. And neither has he jilted you. Take heart! For yours is a great love, such as few of us ever know; and your father has agreed to the match, and nothing stands in the way of your happiness, save a little time.”

Helmwyn sighed. “I know. You are right, of course. I ought to be strong, and busy, and cheerful, for his sake - for all our sakes.”

“Aye, said Ortrud. “And I know you will be. But it is all right to grieve. Sometimes one tires of being strong.”

Helmwyn laid her head on her aunt’s shoulder, and Ortrud hugged her, and they said nothing for a while; and Helmwyn felt a great surge of love and gratitude for her aunt.

“The worst thing is not knowing how long I shall have to wait,” Helmwyn said at last. “I have nightmares, that I waste my youth waiting, and waiting, while he is busy building towers and palaces of stone, ever greater and more magnificent. But when he sends for me at last, I am old, and my childbearing days are long past; but no sign of age is upon him, and he is as handsome as ever he was.”

“Aye, he is a handsome one,” said Ortrud warmly. And then, impishly, she asked: “Does he have a nice backside?”

“My aunt!” cried Helmwyn, a little shocked. “He has a _glorious_ backside.”

“That good?”

“Magnificent.”

The two women sat close together under the linden tree for a while longer, and thought of the lord Thorin’s backside, and smiled appreciatively.

***

In the Blue Mountains, Thorin and his kin had reached an unpleasant stalemate; and the air in the stone chambers was heavy with reproach.

They seldom spoke of the lady of the Mark any more; or if they did, a blazing argument would flare up, and Thorin would dig in his heels, and there would be shouting, followed by resentful silence. Dís oozed disapproval; but she also knew that they needed Thorin, for even she had to acknowledge the fact that Thráin could not rule. He was difficult, even when Thorin’s betrothal was not the current bone of contention. He was always difficult. It was an open secret. Thráin was by turns gruff, maudlin, choleric or absent. Only very seldom was he calm enough to have a quiet conversation; and even then, his answers were odd. Dís would have preferred a council of elders to ensure the smooth running of things, and to quash any notion of Thorin’s marrying that _creature_. But Thorin was loved and respected; and he had taken charge. He was _achieving_ things. Indeed, it seemed that more had been achieved within the past few months than in all the years the Dwarves has eked out a living in the Blue Mountains. But then, Thorin had brought back gold and silver from the south.

That winter, the sound of hammering and chiselling did not cease in the Blue Mountains.

The Dwarves always worked during the winter season; but since Thorin had returned from the south laden with riches, there seemed to be a new sense of purpose about the place. The mining folk had been prospecting in the mountains, and opened up new shafts; and they found iron, tin, copper, lead, and silver ore, and the Dwarves went down the mines with a new gleam in their eye.

The roots of the Blue Mountains were granite, but their shoulders were of sandstone. Red sandstone. Red meant iron; and that was good. Beyond that, it hardly deserved to be called stone at all; it almost crumbled to the touch. But it was easy to cut, and easy to carve; and that would save precious time. It was also prone to weathering and infiltrations. It matters not, thought Thorin; it isn’t as though we are here to stay. Only for a few decades, only as long as it takes for our folk to become strong once more, only until we are ready to reclaim the Mountain.

A part of his mind supplied _Only as long as Helmwyn lives_ , but he quickly smothered that thought. And he picked up the chisel himself to carve out the great halls out of the great red hill.

Able-bodied workers were stretched thin; and miners and stonecutters turned woodmen, for the Dwarves required vast quantities of wood. They built a sawmill on a swift torrent that tumbled down the mountainside; and this time Snorri the engineer was free to put in as many cogs and gearwheels as he pleased, to meet the demand. The Dwarves needed beams to shore up their mineshafts, and they needed timbers to build scaffolds and hoists inside the halls; but most of all, they needed wood for the glassworks. And not merely firewood to fire up the great clay furnaces; nay: most of the wood was burned to fine ash. The Dwarves turned woodburners, to supply the glassworks with potash and the forges with coal.

Thorin had gone to Helgi the glassmaker, and told him that he would now be able to dedicate all his time to his craft. Helgi had understood, and nodded, and set to work with renewed vigour. Glassmaking was simple enough in principle. All it required was sand, and ash. Sand was found in abundance in the beds of the many rivers and torrents that flowed down from the mountains; the stone of the mountains themselves, weathered and worn down and washed clean. Ash was made from the tall firs and pines that grew so dense on the mountains’ flanks; and though those forests were plentiful, still the Dwarves depleted them so fast that the glassworks needed to be relocated every few months, lest the unchecked felling of trees lead to landslides.

Sand and ash were simple enough things; and almost all folk were able to make glass, even though it mostly took on a muddy green or yellow hue, and was marred by faults and bubbles. To be sure, the Elves knew how to make glass, and so did the Halflings, and so did the Men. But the Elves were loath to cut down trees, and the Halflings had few enough trees as it was, and the Men had little skill. And neither the Men, nor the Halflings, nor even the Elves knew the secret of pure, clear, faultless glass such as the Dwarves made. And not only did the Dwarves make clear glass; they also knew how to colour it with all manner of hues, pale and subtle, or rich and jewel-bright. Their secret was a knowledge and an understanding of metal oxides; and that secret the Dwarves kept jealously.

Word soon got out, and spread throughout Eriador, that the Dwarves were making glass such as had not been seen in that part of the world for an age. And all at once, folk wanted dwarven glass, though they had managed well enough without it. The demand for windowpanes and drinking-vessels was high; as was the demand for trinkets, beads and baubles. Orders were placed from as far as the Grey Havens to the West, and Bree to the East. Helgi took on workers and apprentices, and he spoke to Thorin about opening another workshop on the other side of the valley; but Thorin smiled, and said he would – but not yet. For now, he would make sure the product was just scarce enough to keep prices high.

***

Thorin retired to his chamber. In truth, it was little more than an alcove off the main hall, with a leather curtain to keep out the draughts. It did little to keep out the sound of hammering and chiselling that went on in the hall, however; for the Dwarves were working ceaselessly. They worked all day and all night; for, beneath the mountains, it mattered little to them whether it were light or dark outside. Thorin had forgotten the time, or if it were night or day; he knew only that his shift was at an end, and that he was weary. He stripped off his shirt, poured some cold water into a basin, and had a perfunctory wash; and he flexed his aching hands and shoulders, and went to stretch out on his cot.

His fingers sought the locket he wore on his heart. Thorin sighed. All that he had left of his lady was a lock of bloodstained hair, a slightly misshapen tattoo, a little golden figure, and a horn that was not really his to keep. As for the cup of greeting, he had tried giving it to Thráin as a gesture of goodwill; but Thráin had very little of goodwill, and when he found out about Scatha’s hoard, he had thrown a fit of rage and threatened to hurl the jewelled cup across the hall, and Thorin had had to wrestle it form him. He had kept it in a wooden chest in his chamber ever since, and was glad of it, for it reminded him of the day he and his lady had met; though he was pained on account of Thráin. He was often pained on account of Thráin.

Thorin opened the locket and cautiously took out the braid of Helmwyn’s hair. The blood on it had dried, and came away in a fine powder; so he was careful only to play with the end of the braid. As always, he told himself that he really would have to fit a crystal into the locket, to protect the hair; but then, when it was sealed, he would no longer be able to touch it. He stared long at the braid, each strand of hair a different shade of gold, and wound it around his finger; then he coiled it again, and closed the locket, and blew out the lamp.

He lay awake in the dark for a while. It was such a dark as could only be found under mountains. His very earliest memories had been of such darkness. It had always made him feel safe. It spoke to his dwarven nature, just as stone did. It had been a relief to settle in the Blue Mountains at last, if only to have stone around him once more, and proper darkness.

But now Thorin found himself wishing for sunlight, and for open skies.

He remembered lying in green grass, under the great blue dome of the summer sky. He remembered his lady’s head on his shoulder; and her hair had been warm from the sun as he twined his fingers in it. He had played with her delightful little human ears. Thorin smiled to himself. She had the prettiest ears. She had slipped a hand beneath his shirt, as she often did, and drowsily stroked his chest; and in that moment he had felt perfect trust, and a deep peace.

Thorin drifted off to sleep in the dark beneath the Blue Mountains; but his heart was warm with golden summer.


	46. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This week, boys and girls, Thorin pursues his business offensive, Helmwyn has a vacation, and we meet Helmwyn’s mum.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 45**

The second year, Helmwyn was bored. She paced around Meduseld like a caged animal; and though it had once seemed to her that there were not enough hours in a day to do all that needed to be done, now the days seemed as long as years. When she could stand it no more, she would frighten Osric and the stewards and the servants by fetching Fearless, and swinging the bright sword in the middle of the hall, since none would spar with her. It was either that, or screaming.

She visited her brother Walda in Aldburg for a little while. It was almost as dull as being wed, except that she slept alone. Her sister-in-law Svanhild tried to cheer her up by involving her in domestic tasks “so that she would be a good wife”. Helmwyn tried to explain to her that she would not have to carry out these tasks – and neither did Svanhild, as a matter of fact; but the silly woman actually enjoyed them. Helmwyn sighed, and consented to take an interest – after all, it might prove useful to know in greater detail how cloth was produced. However, after Helmwyn had broken a few things, including a fairly straightforward warp-weighted loom, even Svanhild decided that it would be better for all concerned if Helmwyn did not try to weave, embroider, or cook – in fact, it would be better if she refrained from touching anything at all.

And so Helmwyn would sit in Aldburg, watching her sister-in-law run the household while Walda was away hunting Orcs; and she felt utterly useless. She thought long about the lord Thorin so far away, and wondered how he fared, what he did, how he laboured, how the settlement in the Blue Mountains was coming along, and whether the gold he had brought back had helped his people’s trade as he had hoped.

She thought of him at night, too. Her body craved him, and she thought it would drive her to distraction. Sometimes, as she lay awake in the dark yet again, she would yield, and reach between her thighs, and give herself pleasure, with the lord Thorin’s name on her lips; but the relief was bitter, and afterwards, more often than not, she felt hollow, and hugged herself, and wept.

Thankfully, Waldred was in Aldburg to; and Helmwyn was glad of his presence, for he was merry company. One evening, after Helmwyn had had a little too much to drink, and had complained of the tedium of her existence yet again, Waldred said: “Let us go to Gondor, you and I. We might pay Mother a visit. It would be change of scenery, and I might look around for a bride, who knows. What say you?”

Helmwyn worried for a moment that she might miss the lord Thorin’s messenger; but then she reflected that it was only the second year since his leaving, and that his halls were unlikely to be finished yet. In any case, she was so bored that the notion of visiting their mother almost seemed like a good idea.

“By all means, let us go to Gondor,” she replied. “I have quite run out of books to read.”

***

It began to be rumoured in Eriador that the Dwarves had struck gold. While in the early years of their settling in Ered Luin, other folk had looked down on them, and treated them with suspicion, now they positively courted them. The Elves had even offered them a trading-post in the Grey Havens. Thorin suspected that their true intention was to spy on them, but accepted the offer anyway.

Whereas before the Dwarves had scraped together a miserable living making tools and other useful things, now they sold useless things for good money to folk who could afford them. Thorin learned the bitter lesson that folk were more willing to part with their gold to an affluent merchant than to give copper pennies to a poor wandering tinker. And he hated them for it; and so he put on sable furs and a wolfish smile, and set out to fleece his neighbours for all they were worth.

It had worked for glass; and what was true of glass was also was true of jewellery. The Elves were perfectly capable of making their own (if one liked that sort of thing, thought Thorin with a sneer). But they expected other folk to do the mining for them. That meant the Dwarves. And since the Dwarves had vanished from Ered Luin an age ago, the Elves were left with what they had. But the Elves had an appetite for shiny things. Like magpies, Thorin thought. They desired these things, although they did not truly appreciate them. He thought they did not deserve the gemstones they so lusted after. But the Elves commissioned jewelled circlets and brooches and scabbards for their silly elven daggers, since there were none in Middle-Earth who could work gems like the Dwarves could. And the Dwarves lovingly cut the stones, and regretfully set them in tasteless mounts of curly gold wire, and made the Elves pay through the nose. (1)

As for the Halflings, they were like children. Some of them had money and a haughty demeanour; but what most of them wanted were thin bands of gold, or little flower-shaped earrings of gilt brass and glass stones to give their sweethearts. In fact, Halflings seemed to be getting betrothed or married half the time. The other half of the time, they had birthdays. The market was truly astonishing. Dwarves who had been toymakers before the dragon came lay down their hammers and their chisels, and took up their minute tools once more, and remembered how to make intricate little mechanisms; and the wondrous toys that were last seen on the markets of Dale long ago were made once again. The Halflings craved them.

One item that unexpectedly became all the rage among the Shire-folk was the clock. The Dwarves had no idea why Halflings required clocks, unless perhaps to know precisely when teatime was; but they desired dwarven clocks with a passion. The most sought-after models were those that did not merely chime the hour, but where a little songbird bobbed its tail and flapped its wings and whistled a few notes. (2) Owls and magpies were especially popular. (3) Such clocks were frequently given as wedding-gifts. Presumably the happy couple who owned such a clock would be the envy of its neighbours, and was assured to possess a conversation piece for dinner parties, or for when the marriage grew dull.

***

Thorin would ride to the Grey Havens himself. He would visit the trading-post, and speak with traders and mariners, and ostensibly keep an eye on dwarven craftsmen working in the city. The local Elf-lord, or whatever he called himself, had commissioned stained-glass windows for his palace. They were hideous things, full of maidens with flowing gowns and long snaky hair, and hanging clusters of wisteria blossom, and peacocks; and the Dwarves charged a fortune for them. But Thorin had another purpose in visiting the Havens.

He would ride into the city dressed ostentatiously in velvets and furs, astride a glossy black stallion, his bridle studded with silver. The Elves noticed the horse; for he was a truly magnificent beast, such as was never seen in these parts. The Elves noticed the horse, and desired him, and thought that a Dwarf had no business riding such a fine steed – or indeed such a tall one (4). Some of them approached Thorin, and offered to purchase the animal; but he smiled mysteriously, and told them the horse was not for sale, and rode away again.

But every time he rode to the Grey Havens, the Elves approached him again; and every time their bids were higher. And still Thorin told them the horse was not for sale.

In truth, it had taken Thorin much time to be able to ride the wretched creature without being bitten, thrown, or otherwise humiliated. It had been a battle of wills; but Thorin was damned if he was going to let a horse prove more stubborn than him. Thorin tried blackmail, depriving the horse of female company, and diminishing his rations if he misbehaved. He tried appealing to the beast’s vanity; and indeed the horse enjoyed being shown off, and perhaps he sensed that his fortunes might improve considerably if he preened in front of the tall pointy-eared people. But Thorin suspected that what truly worked on Endwerc was Khuzdul. Perhaps it was Thorin’s voice. Or perhaps it was a combination of the two. But when Thorin shouted at him in Khuzdul, the horse’s eyes rolled in terror, and he suddenly became very quiet and obedient – if a little twitchy.

In the end, one Elf-lord made Thorin an offer he could not refuse. He pretended to be sorry to part with the horse, gave the reins regretfully to the Elf, pocketed a heavy purse, and walked away jauntily, immensely pleased that he had managed to sell the evil-minded nag to an Elf, and for twice what Helmwyn had told him the horse was worth. And Elves did not speak Khuzdul. Thorin grinned to himself.

***

Helmwyn had been to Gondor as a girl, and had liked the place. She had liked the fine stone buildings, and the food, and the libraries. Of course, at the time, she had been a shy, flat-chested thing, and no-one had paid her much attention.

Now, however, she found she was given a great deal of attention, all of it entirely unwanted (5). She had caused quite a stir when she rode into Dol Amroth with her brother and a company of horsemen. One would have thought these folk had never seen a woman in armour – no, she told herself; they had not. Their women were subservient things, who lowered their gaze modestly, and wore veils over their hair. Helmwyn wore her hair loosely braided, and looked people in the eye (6).

Men would leer at her, which made her angry – no-one ever dared leer at her in the Mark. Even the noblemen at the palace leered at her; and some, under the pretence of gallant conversation, made lewd remarks about riding, and swords. Helmwyn fumed; but her mother expected her to smile sweetly and say nothing. And so Helmwyn smiled sweetly, said nothing, and broke one lord’s nose.

This caused another stir; but Helmwyn went to help herself to another glass of wine, and sat placidly on the terrace overlooking the bay, massaging her knuckles, while her mother apologised profusely to the injured lord, and tried to avert a diplomatic incident. Waldred wept with laughter.

***

A word should be said about the lady Gerutha, the wife of King Brytta, and mother of Walda, Waldred and Helmwyn. She was a handsome woman, with a proud bearing, and heavy dark braids. Her own father was a lord of the Mark, but her mother hailed from Gondor; and she had been born in Dol Amroth, and spent her girlhood there. She had fallen passionately in love with Brytta, then a prince, and a strong and handsome one at that, when he had visited the Stoningland in his youth. She had followed him to the Mark, and borne him three children.

But when the first flush of passion had passed, she had found the Mark to be an uncouth, primitive place; and she had cruelly missed the mild weather and elegant court life of Dol Amroth by the sea. And so when her children were grown, and the Orc-raids became more frequent, the lady Gerutha decided to return to Gondor – for safety, or so she had claimed. And as Helmwyn had recently lost her husband, she bade her daughter come with her. Helmwyn had said that she would stay. Gerutha had said that staying was foolish. Helmwyn had said that leaving was betrayal.

They had not parted on good terms.

Whereas Waldred had spent several years of his youth in Gondor, and had thus acquired a veneer of manners, wit, and lechery, Helmwyn had turned out to be everything Gerutha had feared she would become: headstrong, warlike, and fiercely attached to the Mark. To be sure, as a child she had been thoughtful, and fond of books; but in the end she was her father’s daughter.

Gerutha had hoped that marriage would tame Helmwyn; and she had tried to manoeuvre King Brytta into considering a match with Gondor. But the King had adamantly refused to wed his daughter to a lord far away, who would furthermore be much older than she was, or outlive her three times over; and so they had settled on one of Walda’s comrades-in-arms. Unfortunately he had turned out to be an indulgent fool, who had humoured Helmwyn, and encouraged her to train; and upon his death, there was no controlling her.

Waldred was perfectly at his ease in Dol Amroth; he liked nothing better than to make conversation to the simpering young ladies of the court, during the mild evenings, when the elegant young nobles sat in the gardens under the flowering trees, listening to lute music. As for Helmwyn, she was bored. _Dull Amroth_ , she called the place. The men got on her nerves. The women got on her nerves. Her mother got on her nerves.

Helmwyn did not respond at all well to her mother’s suggestions that she should shave, wax or otherwise depilate various parts of her anatomy; and neither did she agree to wear rose-coloured silks, or to put her scanty bosom on display. And neither did she intend on being charming. “I know Waldred is looking for a bride,” said the lady Gerutha; “but would it not be delightful if you too found yourself a husband, my dear? After all, it has been a long time since your Theodric passed away. You must feel lonely.” Helmwyn told her mother in no uncertain terms what she thought of this. She did not tell her mother about the lord Thorin, though. She would never hear the end of it if she did.

The one thing Helmwyn did enjoy was the food. The food was extraordinary. They had herbs and vegetables in Gondor that soaked up the southern sun, and were colourful and fragrant. She wondered vaguely if any of these could be made to grow in the Mark, as a welcome change from turnips and cabbages. She made a mental note to talk to the gardeners, although she strongly suspected that none of the delicate plants would survive one damp winter in the Mark. And she sat around in the warm sunshine, sullen and alone, drinking too much of that golden wine they had, while her brother flirted with every girl in the court, and her mother watched her hawkishly, and despaired.

***

The works on the great halls of Ered Luin continued apace; and as the volumes of the rooms slowly became apparent, Hogni had begun to draft suggestions for the decorative scheme, and submitted them to Thorin.

“Yes, yes, Hogni,” Thorin would say; “yes, very nice. If you could just put a little less emphasis on monumental statues of Durin, and a bit more emphasis on heating, plumbing and ventilation…”

“You don’t want monumental statues of Durin?” exclaimed the outraged stonemason. “What sort of halls do you call that? You’ve got to have monumental statues of Durin!”

“There will be plenty of time for monumental statues of Durin _later on_ ,” explained Thorin patiently; “but for now it would be truly wonderful if these halls were _inhabitable_ before too long.”

“But -”

“Heating, plumbing and ventilation, Hogni,” said Thorin in a very definite voice.

In truth, the comfort of the halls was still very rudimentary; and most of the Dwarves still dwelt in little caves or outbuildings further down the valley. But no small amount of commerce was already being conducted inside the great hall, for at least it was dry; and makeshift cubbyholes were set aside for moneychangers, lawyers and tax administrators. They were back in business.

A number of Dwarf women were beginning to appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Of course, they must have been there all along, hiding in their homes, or disguised as men; but now they were out and about once more, wearing traditional dwarven female garb, and the settlement echoed with the voices of women and children.

Everywhere Thorin went, there seemed to be young lasses, daughters of merchants and officials, market-girls and cooks and serving-wenches; and they all smiled at him, and tried to press baked goods or cups of ale onto him. Thorin found this highly suspicious; and wondered if this were not some conspiracy of his sister’s. It would have been like her to put them up to this.

But to tell the truth, Thorin found all these poor lasses unattractive. Even the pretty ones seemed to him plump and soft and faintly absurd, with their elaborate hair and their elaborate dresses, and their bosoms immodestly on display. He thought of his lady in her boots and breeches and leather jerkin, with her hair unbound and her sword slung on her hip. To him, she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

He remembered her small breasts, and her earnest eyes, and her sweet kisses; and he wanted nothing more than to fold his arms about her slender frame once again. His mind kept dwelling on the moments they had spent alone together. Their first night in the cave. That time by the pool. That time in the tent, after the battle. And, oh, that time in the forge. And their last, sorrowful night in the Golden Hall. Sometimes, when he could bear it no longer, Thorin would take matters into his own hands; and afterwards he felt ludicrous, and slightly guilty.

*******

Yet another feast was held, purportedly in honour of the guests from Rohan. Tables had been laid out in a pleasant shaded courtyard of the palace, where lemon trees grew; and Helmwyn, Waldred, and the lady Gerutha sat at the high table with Algahad, the prince of Dol Amroth, and the highest lords and ladies of his court.

Many of the nobles of Dol Amroth affected to speak the elven tongue, of which Helmwyn had but a little; and so she kept to herself, and listened distractedly to the madrigals. They were in elvish, of course, but they were rather good. But the madrigals were followed by harp-playing; and Helmwyn was saddened, for that invariably made her think of the lord Thorin.

But at last Prince Algahad rose, and bade the harpists stop, and raised his cup. “Dear friends, allow me so speak a few words in honour of our royal guests of the house of Eorl,” said he in the Common Tongue; and Helmwyn thought this was rather condescending. “Dear lady Gerutha, it is always an honour and a delight to welcome your noble children to Belfalas. The lord Waldred is already well known to us all, and well-beloved at our court; and we hope that he may soon be bound to Dol Amroth with even closer, sweeter bonds.” Waldred grinned; and several young maidens at the feast blushed, simpered, caught each other’s eye, and glared at each other.

“But as for the lady Helmwyn,” the Prince went on, “she was but a child when last we saw her. But we see now that she has grown into a splendid lady, the very image of her noble mother.” And with that Prince Algahad gave a little bow to the lady Gerutha, who beamed at him. Helmwyn rolled her eyes at the Prince’s platitudes. She watched her mother, and decided there must be something going on between those two; after all, the Prince was a good-looking man, in a Númenorean, silver-templed sort of way.

But the Prince clapped his hands; and servants came forward, bearing a cumbersome object draped in velvet. “We wish to present the lady Helmwyn with this gift, as a homage to her beauty. We hope that she shall find the gift pleasing; and that perhaps the princess of the Horse-Lords too shall consider binding herself to Dol Amroth with closer, sweeter ties.”

Helmwyn looked up from her plate, stunned. Prince Algahad gestured to the servants; and upon his command, they took away the velvet covering, revealing a richly-wrought saddle. It was a splendid thing of blue leather, inlaid with coils and vines of gold and silver wire. “We were told that these were your preferred colours, sweet lady,” the Prince went on; “and we hold this a happy omen, for these too are the colours of our house. Well, lady Helmwyn, does the gift please you?”

Helmwyn stared at the thing.

It was a side-saddle.

A _side-saddle_. Helmwyn had never felt so insulted in her entire life. She took a few deep breaths, and rose slowly, and stepped demonstratively around the table to scrutinize the offending object.

“What is the purpose of this?” she asked; and her voice carried in the sudden hush of courtyard. “Is it intended for training?” She circled the gift, making the servants rather nervous. “The only purpose such a saddle could have,” she went on, in clear, commanding tones, “would be to have the rider thrown, or possibly to hinder their swordplay. But I have been in saddle almost since I could walk, my lord; and I have had all the practice I require. Perhaps the younger squires at your court might benefit from training on such a… contraption; but I indeed have no use for it.”

A murmur ran among the guests; and they watched their Prince in apprehension, and wondered what he would say to the wild northern lady who stood facing him, as slender and steely as a drawn blade.

Prince Algahad looked long at her; and at last he said: “If the gift has offended you, fair lady, pray forgive us; for such was not our intent.”

“It was received in the spirit in which it was given,” replied Helmwyn coolly, and bowed to the Prince, and walked away out of the courtyard.

***

Helmwyn stormed into her apartments; and her mother stormed in after her.

“You have insulted the prince of Dol Amroth!” hissed the lady Gerutha.

“I rather think the prince of Dol Amroth has insulted me,” snapped Helmwyn.

“He has done you a very great honour,” said her mother, her voice rising; “and you should be grateful for such a lord’s attentions!”

Helmwyn stopped in her tracks, and looked her mother straight in the eye. “Is this your doing, Mother?”

“Prince Algahad is one of the most eligible lords in Gondor!”

“If he is so much to your liking, why not marry him yourself?” spat Helmwyn. “After all, he is more your age. I am sure Father would hardly notice if you were to divorce him.”

Gerutha paled with outrage. She nearly struck Helmwyn, but thought better of it. Her daughter strode on to her chamber, and started stripping off her gown.

“Have you any idea how hard I have had to work to convince Prince Algahad that, contrary to appearances, you were not some ghastly little savage, but a King’s daughter?”

Helmwyn slipped on some leather breeches. “If you have led him to believe that I wanted a husband, then you knowingly misled him, Mother. You have no-one to blame but yourself.”

“Would you not be lady of the peaceful land of Belfalas, rather than skulking in that smoky hut on that windy hill?”

“You never did like the Mark, did you, Mother?” growled Helmwyn as she pulled on her boots.

“Is that why you hate me so much? What is it you _want_ , daughter?” cried Gerutha in exasperation.

“What I want? I would be rid of Orcs, Mother. I would see the people of the Mark harvest their crops and raise their children and breed their horses and market their wares in peace.”

But as Helmwyn stood and faced her mother, naked to the waist, the lady Gerutha saw the black mark above her wrist; and she seized her daughter’s arm, the better to look at it.

“So it is true?” she said at last.

Soldiers and servants talked. Unless it was Waldred. Helmwyn supposed her mother had to find out sooner or later. She said nothing, but snatched her arm away, and threw on a shirt.

“You dare blame me for abandoning the Mark,” said Gerutha, “you dare spurn the highest prince in the realm, and you would run off with a _Dwarf_?”

Helmwyn grabbed her sword and strode out of the room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” shouted Gerutha after her.

“I am going for a ride!” Helmwyn shouted back.

***

Helmwyn left for Minas Tirith shortly afterwards. She told her brother to join her when he was done comparing the local maidens, and she bowed graciously to prince Algahad and the members of his court; and she mounted on her tall grey horse, and rode off in a cloud of dust with half a company of horsemen. The lady Gerutha did not come out to greet her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Making elven kitsch is enough to make any honest Dwarf’s heart bleed; but money is money.
> 
> (2) Yes, the Dwarves invented the cuckoo clock. Or rather, the cuckoo clock is a perversion of what was once a delightful and poetic example of dwarven ingenuity.
> 
> (3) A few Elves commissioned such clocks. Of course, they wanted nightingales and peacocks. The Dwarves made them pay through the nose.
> 
> (4) And indeed, getting up into the saddle was awkward for Thorin. He required a stepladder; but he wasn’t going to let the Elves see that.
> 
> (5) Despite the fact that she was almost as flat-chested now as she had been then.
> 
> (6) That is to say, she glared at them.
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: And next week, boys and girls, Helmwyn is going to hit Minas Tirith. If they have any sense, they’ll run for the hills.


	47. Chapter 46

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 46**

 

Helmwyn led her men through the great gates, and found that they were expected. A company of horsemen awaited them, bearing the device of the white tree on their sable surcoats; and before them was a young lord with coppery hair, who rode forward to address her.

“Welcome to Minas Tirith, Lady Helmwyn!” he called. “We have had word of your coming. I am Thorondir, son of Belecthor, the lord and Steward of Gondor; and in his name I bid you welcome. If it please you, I shall escort you and your men to the Citadel.”

Helmwyn eyed the mounted guards with their plate armour, and their spears. She raised an eyebrow. “A most martial welcome, lord Thorondir.”

“Your reputation precedes you, my lady,” answered the captain; but he was smiling. Helmwyn spurred her horse onwards, and Thorondir escorted her up the paved street towards the gate in the second wall; and her Riders followed, flanked by the guards of the Citadel.

“I hope Gondor will not start a war with the Mark on account of me,” said Helmwyn conversationally as they rode.

Thorondir laughed. “Nay,” he said. “In truth, I believe my father thinks Prince Algahad a pompous fool.” Indeed, the tale of the saddle had reached Minas Tirith, and brought a faint smile even to the Steward’s stern face. “But you have my solemn promise that no-one here shall present you with a side-saddle,” Thorondir went on. “Or if they do, I pray you come to me.”

“And what will you do, my lord?” asked Helmwyn. “Will you break their nose on my behalf?”

“Indeed not, for I hear you are quite capable of doing that yourself! Nay; I shall speak to them sternly, and frown at them, and talk to them at length about the history and customs of your people, until they beg for mercy and vow never to insult the lady of the Eorlingas again.”

Helmwyn smiled. “Is then the history of my people so dull?”

“Not to me, and indeed I have studied it much,” replied the Steward’s son; “but I cannot vouch for others.”

Helmwyn looked at him for a few moments, then laughed brightly.

***

Helmwyn was happier than she had been in a long time. She spent her days in archives and libraries, reading treatises on agriculture, warfare, animal husbandry, herb-lore, engineering, grammars and glossaries, songs and poems, and histories – especially histories of Durin’s folk. These were scant, but she was glad of them nonetheless. She pored long over maps that showed the Blue Mountains, and their surrounding lands, and tried to guess the distance that lay between them and the Mark. She took notes, sheet after sheet of them.

The archivists and librarians, and in fact all the folk of Minas Tirith, were intrigued and amused by this shieldmaiden who spent all her time among dusty books and scrolls. This was not entirely the case; for if there were an evening of song or poetry at the lord Steward’s court, or at one of the great houses, Helmwyn would attend. Folk half-expected her to break someone’s nose, but she did no such thing; instead she would sit and listen thoughtfully, thank the singer and the host, and retire afterwards, before the evening became merry.

But when the air of the library became too close, and she needed sunlight and green grass, she went and stood at the end of the great stone promontory that thrust from the Citadel like the prow of a great stone ship. She would lean on the battlements, and gaze out onto the plains that lay at the foot of the city, and watch the wide river glittering in the sun, and the great ruined dome of Osgiliath. She wondered vaguely why the Gondorrim had abandoned the city altogether; perhaps it was because even they could not match the stonework of the Sea-Kings of old.

Indeed, though Mundburg was strong and fair, Helmwyn could now tell that sections of tumbledown walls had been patched by lesser hands, with smaller stones; and she smiled to herself, thinking that these folk would do well to call upon dwarven stonemasons. And as she stood on the battlements, she was powerfully reminded of the Deeping-Wall, where she had stood beside the lord Thorin, with the mountains at their back, and the green plains before them, and the wind in their hair. But this place was much greater than the Hornburg. Helmwyn remembered the lord Thorin’s words about his lost mountain kingdom long ago, and wondered whether it had looked anything like this. She wished he were there with her. He would have liked this place.

***

Thorin and Dwalin sat companionably together, smoking their pipes. They had engaged in a bout of sparring – the first in too long; and they were bruised and battered and content. But as they sat, Dwalin noticed that Thorin had become quiet and thoughtful once more, as though something weighed on his mind. Then again, he thought, something always weighed on Thorin’s mind.

“So,” Dwalin asked; “is Thráin still upset?”

“When is he not upset?” answered Thorin gloomily.

“I was thinking…” said Dwalin, “that sort of thing - Dwarves and humans - that must happen all the time in Eriador; and no one makes a fuss about it.”

“What lone craftsmen may get up to is bad enough,” said Thorin; “but I am the heir of Durin! Mahal forbid we should” - he imitated Thráin’s growling voice - “ _mix our blood with that of lesser races!_ ”

Dwalin patted Thorin on the shoulder. “He’ll come around, you’ll see. Old Thráin roars like a bear, but he loves you,” said he, trying to sound convincing.

“Let us hope he will remember it eventually,” said Thorin.

They sat in silence for a little while; but there was something else troubling Thorin. At last he told Dwalin: “You know, I sometimes wonder… Back in the Mark… With all these tall, strapping lads about the place… What if she…?”

“What? You think she’ll get bored of waiting and just settle down with the next best Rider?”

“Well… It’s a possibility.” Thorin knew that humans, unlike Dwarves, were not exactly monogamous; and it had begun to worry him.

Dwalin considered that for a moment. “Nah. Can’t see it happening.”

“It’s what any sensible girl would do,” said Thorin sombrely.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow. “Did she strike you as sensible?”

Thorin hesitated. “…at the beginning, certainly. But I’m afraid I rather brought out her reckless side.” Thorin dreamily thought of his lady’s reckless side for a few moments.

“Well, there you go,” said Dwalin. “She’s nuts, so you’ll be fine. But seriously now, I really wouldn’t worry about it. She’s grown up among tall, strapping lads. I guess the novelty’s worn off.”

“Is that what I am?” asked Thorin sullenly. “Novelty?”

“Yup. Pretty exotic by Rohan standards, I’d say.”

“And that’s supposed to be good, is it?” He sighed. “Mind you, if you had told me a couple of years ago that I would fall for a long-legged, flat-chested girl who smells faintly of horse, I would have thought you were mad.”

“I’m amazed you fell for anyone at all. Didn’t seem the type.”

“Neither did you,” said Thorin. There was a moment’s silence. “Were you serious about Ortrud?” Thorin asked quietly.

Dwalin shrugged. “I guess we’ll never find out. Husband and kid and all that. Consider yourself lucky that yours was still available.”

Available _again_ , thought Thorin darkly. He did consider himself lucky; but in a corner of his mind arose the shadowy figure of the Husband. It haunted his dreams. And although he had no face, he somehow became every man in the Mark.

***

Waldred had joined his sister in Mundburg; and there he did much as he had done in Dol Amroth, idling away his time in courtly entertainment and gallant conversation. But Helmwyn shunned the balls and boating trips and hawking parties, preferring to pore over some ancient volume or other; and they saw little of each other.

The lord Thorondir sometimes took it upon himself to rescue Helmwyn from her studious solitude. And she did not mind these interruptions, but welcomed them rather, for he took her through the city to watch craftsmen at their work; and she spoke to the blacksmiths with great interest. He took her to homesteads on the fields of Pelennor, to see how folk tilled the land; and she asked them how their crops grew, and how their beasts fared.

He took her to the landings of Harlond, and showed her the harbour; and she watched the mariners loading and unloading goods, and talked to them, and asked whether they sailed all the way to Mithlond, in the far north. They told her aye, and opened a crate, and showed her fine fluted glasses packed in a bed of straw, and told her that these had been made by Dwarves. And Helmwyn picked up a glass, and turned the sparkling thing in the bright sunlight, and smiled wistfully; and for a while thereafter, she mused about jumping aboard a ship, and making her way to the Blue Mountains, and turning up on Thorin’s doorstep, just to see whether his halls neared completion.

***

They returned to the city at sundown; and they stopped at an inn, and talked. The inn was a pleasant place in the fourth circle, clean and welcoming, as was everything in Mundburg. But this one was built against the outside wall, and it had a wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the plain; and Helmwyn sat on the terrace, and gazed out into the golden haze of evening that hung over the land. Thorondir brought a pitcher of light, fragrant red wine, and sat down across from her.

“My lady,” he said, “there is something I must ask you. Is it true that you had Dwarves repair the old fortress near the Gap of Rohan? I have heard rumours of this, but indeed it seems so fantastical that I do not know whether to believe it.”

“Indeed, my lord, it is true,” she said. “Why, were you thinking of hiring them yourself? I am certain they could mend your walls, or rebuild Osgiliath; though I daresay that would cost you every penny in your vaults.”

Thorondir laughed. “In truth, my lady, I cannot tell whether you jest or no. Mithrandir used to tell me of these folk when I was a boy. Would you have me believe that actual Dwarves walked out of northern legend to shape stones under the southern sun?”

“That I would,” said Helmwyn. “And you had better believe Gandalf’s tales, strange as they may seem; indeed, he was the very one who planted that idea in my mind.”

“It is a strange chance; but then, strange chances occur whenever Mithrandir visits.”

“Aye, that is so,” said Helmwyn with a smile. “But it is well that I heeded his counsel, for the Dwarves did much more besides mend the Hornburg. They fought alongside us, and very valiantly too; and what little mountain-craft my men now possess, they learned from the Dwarves’ example.”

They talked awhile of Orcs, and raids, and hunting and slaying; and Helmwyn asked whether the Orcs had crossed over into Gondor yet. And Thorondir said that they had not; but that if she wished, he would send skilled mountaineers to the Mark, further to instruct the Rohirrim in mountain-lore. Helmwyn accepted that offer gladly; though she believed that, when it came to tracking Orcs in the mountains, the men who had fought alongside Thorin could actually teach the Gondorrim a thing or two.

“So those glasses were truly made by Dwarves,” mused Thorondir. “I thought the mariners merely said that, so that they might claim a steep price for them.”

“If those glasses are of dwarven make, I daresay they are worth every penny,” said Helmwyn.

“It is astonishing that they should possess such exquisite skill,” he said; “for I read that they are stunted, gnarled little fellows, with great bushy beards. Is that not so?”

Helmwyn gave him a long look, but did not answer, and gazed out over the plain once more. Thorondir tried to read her face, but it was guarded and inscrutable.

***

News had reached the Blue Mountains. News from Gondor. Traders had heard from the mariners at the Grey Havens that a lady had come to Gondor from the land of the Horse-Lords, and that she was to wed some great lord of the southern kingdom. Thorin went very quiet, and demanded every shred of information from the quaking tradesmen who had brought the news. But they said that the mariners had said that the lady had visited the southern harbour, and asked questions about trade, and that she wore a sword; and Thorin had no doubt that they spoke of Helmwyn. They said she had been in the company of a tall lord with coppery hair. Thorin went even quieter, and dismissed the tradesmen, and hung his head.

Dís looked on with great satisfaction as her brother paced through the halls like an angry bear. “Don’t you dare say anything,” Thorin growled.

“I’m not saying anything,” Dís answered. “Although the words _I told you so_ do spring to mind.”

“She has kin in Gondor; why should she not go there?” Thorin snapped; but Dís only smiled.

Thorin’s fears had come true; and horror and jealously weighed on his stomach like a lump of cold lead. Yet at the same time he simply could not believe it. It was not like her. Perhaps she has been pressured into it. Aye, that was it. More Orcs had come; and she must have had to secure an alliance for the good of her people.

Thorin drank entirely too much of that red wine the Halflings made. He waxed maudlin, and stared at the cup in his hands. It was the jewelled cup from the Mark. A pretty serving-girl padded silently over to him, and refilled the cup, and looked at him with tender pity in her eyes. Thorin ignored her. “Where is she?” she asked. “The woman who gave you that cup?”

“She rode to Gondor to wed with some lord of that people,” Thorin rumbled.

The girl reached forward to smooth the hair from his face; but Thorin slapped her hand away. “Leave me alone!” he roared. “Get out! Go back to my sister!”

***

Helmwyn was beginning to find the stone city a little oppressive. It lacked green. “There is only one tree in the whole of Mundburg,” she complained to Thorondir; “and even that is white and dead.” And so he took her to the Houses of Healing which, he said, had the fairest garden in the city.

It was a garden of sorts. It had a few squares of clipped grass between little topiary hedges, a bed of medicinal plants, and a trellis of white roses. Helmwyn walked up and down the gravel paths, sniffed a few medicinal plants, and went to lean on the walls to look out over the plains once again.

Thorondir came and stood beside her, and smiled apologetically. “It is not much of a garden, is it?” he said.

Helmwyn shrugged. “It is better than nothing,” she answered.

He began to tell her at length about the history of the Houses of Healing. Helmwyn smiled. She genuinely liked him. He was not unlike Walda - only clever. A little long-winded, perhaps, but she did not mind overmuch. She pretended to listen, and watched the distant ships sailing down the River to the estuary. No, she reflected, not Walda. If anything, he reminded her of her husband. He had the same hint of copper in his hair, the same open countenance, the same warlike bearing, the same gentle and reassuring manner. The same way of smiling at everything she said and did, as though he were perpetually amused by her.

Helmwyn watched the ships fading to minute dots on the glittering water, and wondered how long it would take to reach the Grey Havens by sea. And as she thought on that, she felt a sudden dread in the pit of her stomach. Why had the lord Thorin not yet sent for her? Why, when his people so prospered that they traded with Gondor half a world away? Could it be that he had yielded to kin and duty, and severed the ties that bound him to her, and taken a wife from his own kind, as custom dictated?

“Lady Helmwyn?”

She started. “Hmm?”

“You were deep in thought; though I have a feeling it was not my words you were thinking on,” said Thorondir with that kindly smile of his.

“Forgive me, my lord, I meant no discourtesy,” answered Helmwyn; though she did not tell him what troubled her.

“Do you know,” he said, “I remember when you last visited Minas Tirith, with the King your father.”

“You remember me? I was only a young girl at the time.”

“Aye, I remember you, for even then you were quite memorable. Then too, you spent all your time in the library.” Helmwyn gave him a wan smile. “Did you know that, at the time, our fathers talked?” Thorondir went on. “But King Brytta did not wish to wed his daughter to one whose lifespan would be twice hers; so nothing came of that.”

“I did not know,” said Helmwyn. “Is that what my father said?” She thought of her father’s reluctance to led her wed the lord Thorin; and she guessed that Thráin would be no less reluctant to wed his heir the short-lived daughter of one of the lesser houses of Men. She gave a bitter laugh; and Thorondir wondered what that meant.

He began to tell her about the dwindling lifespan of those of númenorean descent; but Helmwyn was no longer listening. She stared unseeing at the sky, and remembered how the lord Thorin’s eyes had been the exact same colour, beneath their dark lashes; and she felt a sudden pang of longing, and her heart was heavy with love and sorrow.

Thorondir stopped talking, and studied her pale profile.

“Helmwyn,” he said. “May I speak plainly?”

“Pray do,” answered she, perhaps a little unkindly.

“Then I would say this: never before did I see lady in Gondor so lovely, or so sorrowful. There are two reasons for your sorrow that I can guess; but which it is, I do not know. It may be that you mourn the memory of another lord; or it may be that you would be free of him. Maybe it is for both these reasons. Helmwyn, do you not love me, or will you not?”

Helmwyn could not believe her ears; and she turned on Thorondir with anger in her eyes. She was angry at him, for she felt he had betrayed her trust. She was angry at herself, for enjoying his company - perhaps even for encouraging him. She was angry at Thorin for leaving her without tidings for so long - perhaps for leaving her altogether.

Thorondir saw that he had made a terrible mistake. “Alas,” he said. “Does my love offend you?”

“Aye,” Helmwyn growled. “Your love offends me, my lord. Your fair city offends me. The glad summer offends me. This soft life of songs and rose-gardens you would lull me in, it offends me bitterly,” she said, and her voice was rising. “But I shall be no man’s! I have sworn it. I have chosen, my lord. I chose iron and stone; and I will not be swayed!”

Thorondir remained silent for a long while; but at last he spoke, and his voice was hoarse. “Then I guess that what they say is true, though I would not credit it. I must ask you to forgive me, if you can.”

Helmwyn looked upon him; but her anger was spent. “Nay, my lord, it is I who must seek your forgiveness,” she said. “I spoke harsh words to you, though you did not deserve it; for in truth I spoke in bitterness. But as you now know my heart, I hope you may find it in you to forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady; for we cannot be held responsible for the motions of our hearts,” said he, and his voice was gentle and sad.

“I hope you can accept my friendship as friendship, my lord, for that was freely given,” said Helmwyn; “but I can offer no more than that.”

Thorondir bowed, and left; but Helmwyn hung her head, and stood alone on the wall for a long time.

She felt ashamed; ashamed to have spurned a good man, for what might be no more than a shadow, and a memory. Helmwyn knew with a sudden certainty that, had it not been for the lord Thorin, she would have wed that man, and that they would have dwelt together in contentment.

But her love for the lord Thorin was immeasurably greater than any match born of mere reason; and as she stood on the high walls, she longed for him in her very bones. She pulled up her sleeve, and looked at the sigil inked into her flesh. It seemed small and black and angular and alien – like the lord Thorin. And yet it was now irrevocably part of her – like the lord Thorin. Helmwyn wondered whether she would ever feel his strong arms around her again, and twine her fingers in his great dark mane, and feel his beard tickling her throat. She wondered whether he would ever send for her. And if he chose to break his oaths, and to forsake her, and to wed one of his own kind, she wondered whether she would ever know.

Helmwyn stood alone on the walls of Mundburg, and wept.

***

She departed hurriedly for the Mark the next day, leaving pages of notes and opened, unfinished books at her table in the library.

But a few weeks later, two score Rangers from Ithilien arrived in Edoras, with orders to report to the lady Helmwyn. They were brought before her; and their captain bowed to her, and presented her with a handsome leather-bound volume.

“With the lord Thorondir’s compliments,” the captain said.

Helmwyn opened the metal clasps of the book, and studied its splendidly illuminated pages. She smiled wistfully.

It was a history of Durin’s folk.

***

Thorin was nothing if not stubborn.

And so he rode to the Grey Havens, dressed as a simple blacksmith; and he went to a tavern on the waterfront, where the mariners drank, and started buying rounds. A Dwarf buying rounds was a rare enough occurrence, and Thorin soon found himself surrounded by a score of talkative new friends. He asked them to tell him their news of the southern lands; and they were happy to oblige. They said that a handsome young prince from the land of the Horse-Lords had come seeking a bride.

Thorin bought another round, and the mariners clapped him on the shoulders, and began to sing. One song in particular was well-loved in the southern harbours: it was a new song, and spoke of a lady whose hair was of gold, and whose raiment was of silver, but whose heart was of iron and stone; and she had vowed to wed no man, and all the lords of the land were driven to despair for the love of her. (1)

Thorin grinned. “I like that,” he said. “I should like to learn it.”

When Thorin returned to the Blue Mountains, there was a spring in his step and a smile on his lips; and the halls beneath the mountains echoed with his fine voice, for he sang the _Iron and stone_ song as he worked. Soon the other Dwarves picked it up, and began harmonising around the tune, and the sound of their chiselling fell in with the rhythm of the song; and Dís held her hands to her ears to block out the sound, enraged that her plan had failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) There are always old women eavesdropping in the Houses of Healing. Naturally, old women will chatter; and the tale had gone around the city by nightfall - with embellishments.
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: I draw the line at composing actual verse. If anyone should feel so inclined… :-)


	48. Chapter 47

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 47**

 

The third year, Helmwyn ruled.

In truth, there were fewer Orcs than there had been; for many had been slain, and they had been hard hit by hunger, and by the Eorlings’ new defences. But King Brytta and Walda his heir were happiest when riding up and down the land chasing Orcs; and so they rode out, and patrolled, and the King left his house in his daughter’s care. Helmwyn would have liked nothing better than to go with them. She missed riding in swift pursuit, with an _éored_ at her command - the power and the freedom and the sheer joy of it. She remembered it all the more fondly now she was forbidden to do so.

But in such moments she would think on words her aunt Ortrud had once spoken to her: “You will be no use to anyone if you get yourself killed,” she had said. “But you have other skills besides killing – so use them!”

And so, when her menfolk were gone, Helmwyn stayed in Meduseld, and ruled in the King’s stead. To be sure, she had already done so in the past; but then she had always understood it as a makeshift arrangement, until she rode out in her turn. Now, though, her position seemed more formal; and she had a plain chair set beside her father’s throne, and wore her heavy ceremonial garments, and heard petitions, and passed judgement in the name of the King.

There were no queens in the Mark; but though she bore no title, Helmwyn ruled. She chafed at the inadequacy of customary law, and rendered justice as best she could, according to her conscience. She relied on the Book of Doom to encourage folk to return to the Westfold, where land was plentiful, rather than remain crowded in the Eastfold in penury. She kept a close eye on taxes and incomes; and, perhaps out of sheer perversity, she taught Osric double-entry bookkeeping. Thus she was able to delegate an unpleasant task - but it also meant the accounts were easier to check. King Brytta seemed relieved to be rid of it all; and the stewards and counsellors seemed dismayed that she was always there, breathing down their necks.

There was never any question of Waldred playing any useful part. His lack of ambition was one of the pleasant things about him. After several months of revels and flirtations and falconry, he had eventually pledged himself to a sweet, blushing maiden form Lossarnach. She was not the prettiest, nor the brightest; but she was nobly born, and would bring her husband land and riches. Helmwyn felt vaguely sorry for her. But she doubted not that Waldred’s ambition, inasmuch as he had any, was to return to Gondor when he wed, and there to gain advancement by doing nothing at all, save perhaps dancing the pavan.

Helmwyn ruled, and hoped to do well by her people; but she also hoped to rule in a way that would be worthy of the lord Thorin, when the time came for her to sit by his side. She ruled, hoping he might have word of her somehow, perhaps through the long sea-routes, and feel proud of her. She ruled, and tried to save face, and hoped desperately that he had not forgotten her. She sat in Meduseld, in her embroidered mantle and her golden circlet, and felt brittle, like a poorly-quenched blade.

***

One day the guards brought some travelling minstrels before her, bruised and beaten, because they had dared to sing a bawdy song about her in the taverns of Edoras (1). She thought at first of having them flogged; but then she thought better of it. Instead, she sent the hapless singers to patrol the Westfold with the next _éored_. With any luck, that would teach them a thing or two.

***

In those days, Thorin was perpetually ill-humoured. Not that he had ever had an easy and open disposition. But the Blue Mountains needed ruling, and Thráin could not be…burdened with such cares; and so it fell to Thorin to settle disputes, and pass laws and rulings and regulations – a king in all but name. He had thought it bad enough before, when the Dwarves had had little enough to squabble over; but now that they actually had wealth and trade again, the disputes seemed never to end. He relied greatly on Balin’s judgement, for he was as shrewd as he was learned, and excelled at settling matters in a way that would satisfy all – or as near as could be.

The scrolls of property law and commercial law and mining law and inheritance law had been lost when the dragon sacked the Mountain; and as for the council of elders, they all had their own personal – if not downright partial – recollection of the texts. Thorin wanted to throw things, but knew it would not make him feel better; and so he sat in his high chair in the council-chamber, and let his anger simmer while the elders argued. He wished he were back in the forge. He wished he were up a scaffold with the stonemasons. He wished he had a hammer in his hand and could actually do something useful. Hells, he wished he were back on the _battlefield_.

Thorin thought of his lady far away, and imagined her to be burdened with similar cares, and wondered how she would deal with all this. Most likely she would try to be as fair as possible; but in the face of two obdurate parties, she would lose patience and speak stern words to all concerned. Thorin smiled. Not so different from what he himself would do, he thought; although he imagined her to be more thorough, and less irascible, than he was.

Thorin sighed. He needed her by his side. He needed her insight, her counsel; he needed her to charm people, because he was terrible at that (so was she, but he was biased), or to put them sharply back in their place (he could do that himself, but he had loved to watch her do it). He needed her to soothe him, to put her arms around his neck, and to kiss his frown away. He needed her to brighten these halls with her presence and her laughter; for she was the joy of his heart, and the dreary Blue Mountains seemed even more dreary to him without her.

But in this too he needed Balin. Balin had spent a long time slowly and patiently softening up the elders, trying to instil the idea that a match between the heir of Durin and a daughter of Men was not such an abomination after all. Not that it had ever been explicitly forbidden anywhere; it was one of those unwritten rules that every Dwarf simply _knew_. The elders grumbled, but since they could not point to any text prohibiting the union, all they could say was ‘It has ever been thus!’, for that sort argument usually impressed Dwarves. But the elders could frown and disapprove all they liked: Thorin would not be gainsaid. Nevertheless, Balin was tireless in seeking legal loopholes – just to ensure that once the match was made, it could not be _un_ made. 

As for Dís, in truth, she was not displeased that life was better in the Blue Mountains. But she also saw that the people loved Thorin for it; and she feared that her brother’s soaring popularity would enable him to proceed with that unnatural wedding of his. She thought of ways she could prevent that; but bribing the traders had failed, and she was only a young girl, and had few allies. And however passionately she spoke, the elders merely shuffled their feet when she harangued them. Many agreed with her; but all they said was ‘Aye, lady, it is unnatural; but what can _we_ do?’

***

Thorin had had enough; and whenever he had had enough, he went to the forges. There were many in the Blue Mountains, and foundries, and furnaces. But at the foot of the great red hill, there was one forge where the Dwarves turned out tools for the stonecutters working on the halls, for there the demand was ceaseless; and though sandstone was easy to cut, still the stonecutters’ tools needed making, and sharpening, and mending.

The smiths welcomed Thorin, and gave him a place at the anvil; and they were glad that their prince was not too proud to work alongside them, and that he was still one of them. In truth, the work calmed Thorin’s nerves, and helped focus his mind; it always had done. It calmed Thráin’s nerves, too; and indeed the old King spent much of his time in the forges. His mind may have been wandering, but his hands had not forgotten their skill, and his arms were as strong as ever; and as he struck the glowing iron with mighty blows of his hammer, he seemed content. And in such moments, father and son would work together, mostly in silence, but sometimes in song; and at such times Thorin felt closer to his father than he had in a long while. Thráin almost seemed like himself again. He looked powerful in the red light of the forge, like the great Dwarf-lord he had been; and there was no glint of madness in his eye.

At one such time, Thorin sat outside the forge, and smoked his pipe, and watched the mists of evening settling over the fir forests in the valley, veiling them in a blue haze. Thráin came out and sat down beside him, and drank from his water-skin, and splashed some water over his face to cool it. They sat side by side in silence, and Thorin dared not disturb the fragile peace of that moment by saying anything. Much to his surprise, it was Thráin who spoke. “Still want to get married?” he rumbled; but though his voice was gruff, it was not angry.

“Aye, Father; I do,” said Thorin quietly.

He braced himself for an outburst of rage; but it did not come. Instead, Thráin said: “My son…don’t you think you’re a little young to be thinking about marriage and children?”

Thorin considered that. “Aye, it is true; I am young,” he said. “But it may be that I have wandered long enough. It may be that I have seen too much death.”

“Haven’t we all,” muttered Thráin.

Thorin hesitated, but he went on. “But in truth, I did not go south seeking a bride. I sought gold. But in the Mark I found treasure unlooked-for, and a jewel beyond price.” Thorin waited for his father’s reaction; but Thráin appeared to be listening, and so Thorin went on. “Each of us may only find one such jewel in his lifetime; and many never find it at all. And if I must outlive the lady many times, then so be it; but I will not wait, and let this jewel fall from my grasp.”

Thráin fidgeted with his water-skin; but there was still no outburst. Thorin could hardly believe that he was discussing this calmly with his father. “Aye,” said Thráin at last. “I see that it is my fault. You grew up on the road, but I should have sheltered you better. You have become too fond of Men.”

“I was never fond of Men,” said Thorin. But as he said that, he wondered whether Thráin was not right. Perhaps the memory of the glory of Erebor was truly fading, and perhaps he truly was forgetting the nobility of his race; and perhaps after all these years he had become used to being among Men, and thought of them as folk just like his own. He had never thought about it like that. “You are right,” he said at last. “It is true that I liked the horse-people. Though I always felt…separate from them.”

“That’s as it should be,” said Thráin with some satisfaction; and Thorin wistfully recalled the fair green land with its strong people.

“But as for the lady…” Thorin went on, and struggled to put his feelings for the lady into words his father could comprehend. “Father…do you recall the great woven cloths that hung in Erebor?”

“Aye, that I do,” said Thráin.

“The tale of our people is such a tapestry, woven with rich colours and storied with great deeds. But the colours have become dark, and the weft has become mixed with grief.”

“And what of our house?” cried Thráin. “Would you tell me that that thread is spent?” Thráin was becoming agitated; but Thorin laid his hand on his father’s, and spoke to him gently:

“Father, that thread is not ended. Nor will it end. But this I would tell you: the tapestry has become dark, but the lady of the Mark is like a rune broidered in golden thread upon that mournful cloth. She is a gladness-rune; a victory-rune. And were I one to believe in fate and portents, I would say that our destinies are joined.”

In truth, Thorin knew not why he had thought of such an odd image; but it had certainly made an impression on Thráin. “You are sure of this, my son?” he asked hoarsely.

“Aye,” said Thorin. “Never have I been more sure.”

Thráin had become superstitious, like Thrór before him; and he did look for signs and portents, and Thorin’s words troubled him. He thought of his late wife, Thorin’s mother. He remembered her austere beauty, and the heavy braids that had adorned her proud head. He remembered that she had been wise and patient, and how she had always soothed his fiery temper. He remembered how he had doted on her. He remembered that her name had been Sigrún (2), and that her hair had been the colour of burnished gold.

He stared unseeing at the fir-trees for a long while; but at last he clasped his son’s hand, and Thorin was moved almost to tears, for he could not remember when he had last had a normal talk with his father.

“Ah. My boy,” said Thráin, all misty-eyed, and patted his son’s hand. “You know, I think of Thorin a lot. I so wish he hadn’t died.”

***

“Gandalf!” cried Helmwyn across the hall.

The doors of Meduseld had swung open, and the grey wizard strode in – unhindered this time. (3) Helmwyn walked up to him, and threw her arms around the old man’s neck.

“My dear girl!” he chuckled. “What welcome is this?”

“I wanted to thank you, Gandalf,” said she; “for never has your counsel been aught but profitable, both to me and to the Mark.”

Gandalf seemed amused. “Indeed? And what counsel would that be?”

“I heeded your advice,” said Helmwyn, “and sent for Dwarves; and now the Hornburg stands strong once more, and its caves are secure, and we have withstood the Orc-raids!”

“I am glad to see hope and courage rekindled in you, my lady,” said the wizard, although in truth he thought that she looked pale and listless. But he remembered his errand to her, and thought it would cheer her. “But I had heard of this already,” he said; “and it is partly on account of the Dwarves that I came here today.”

Helmwyn stared at him. “What mean you by this?”

“It is a pleasant tale, my lady. I was passing through western Eriador, and thought I would go and see for myself how the Dwarves were settling in the Blue Mountains. I was greeted by a din of hammering and chiselling, for the Dwarves were hard at work hollowing out the mountain. King Thráin could not receive me, but I made the acquaintance of the legendary Thorin Oakenshield at last.

“We exchanged all the usual pleasantries, and talked mostly of commerce. I was surprised to hear that he himself had been among the party of workers that came to Rohan, but then, such has been the fate of the Dwarves of late, even for the heir of Durin. But do you know, it seems their visit here has been as profitable for them as it was for you, for the riches they brought back have done wonders to bolster their trade.

"But then he asked me if I were bound to travel south; and I told him that I was, and he said he had an errand for me, that he would not entrust to any of his own people. An errand to you, lady.

“‘You have the lady’s trust,’ said he, ‘and you look like you can fend for yourself; moreover, no-one will suspect that you are carrying something of great worth. Indeed, you seem the unlikeliest person for that.’ I bristled at that; for while it is true enough, I found that a little forthright, on such short acquaintance. ‘Are you referring to the way I look?’ I answered. ‘Do not trust to appearances, my lord Thorin, for appearances can be deceptive’ said I. ‘Aye, that they can be,’ answered he, ‘and I trust yours will deceive any covetous Dwarf or dunlendish brigand that you may chance upon on your way.’ And he gave me this.”

Gandalf rummaged in the recesses of his robe and produced a small suede pouch.

“You must forgive the wrapping, my lady, but I prefer to travel lightly. Of course, he presented it to me in a heavy carved casket with an elaborate lock, as any true Dwarf would. I lost my patience with him. ‘Master Dwarf,’ I said to him, ‘I may be willing to ride halfway across Middle-Earth to run your errand, but I will not lumber myself with that preposterous box. The lady will like the gift, or she will not; but if she does not, she will like it no better if it is given to her in a silver-bound chest.’ ”

Helmwyn had opened the pouch and removed an object wrapped in velvet; and unwrapping the cloth, she found a blue gem the size of a crow’s egg. Under its smooth polished surface, suspended in its depths, there shone a six-rayed star. She let it roll between her fingers, and turned to look at it in a better light, and gazed at it long, as the old wizard continued his tale.

“Naturally, his pride was injured, and he said to me: ‘Indeed, if the lady cares for any stones at all, it is for those that we have quarried, and which now strengthen the walls of the Hornburg. But this jewel is a token that my people prosper again, and that our halls are near completion, and that her waiting shall soon be at an end.’ I looked at him in disbelief, as you can imagine, but he seemed unshakeably sure of himself. ‘I shall deliver your message, Thorin Oakenshield, and your gift,’ said I; ‘but to you I will give a word of warning: for you know the lady ill if you hope to win her heart with trinkets.’ He growled at me: ‘You shall find that I have given her a trinket already. Ask her to show it to you when you come to Edoras, and then shall you judge whether or not I know her heart.’ Well, lady, what do you make of that?”

Helmwyn stood still with her back to him, and held the gem in her fist, and did not reply; but as he took a few steps to look at her, Gandalf saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. He felt a pang of guilt, for he had hoped she would laugh at his tale; and he saw now how terribly mistaken he had been.

“My dear child, I am so sorry. I did not know…”

She could hold back her sobs no longer, and wept bitterly; and the old man patted her affectionately, if rather ineffectually, on the back. But she composed herself again after a few moments, and bade him wait there, and walked away to her chamber; whereupon she returned shortly afterwards, bearing a sword.

“Behold, my friend, the lord Thorin’s gift to me,” she said.

Gandalf took the sword from her, and examined the scabbard, and the hilt, and the pommel; then he drew it a few inches, and marvelled at the patterns that rippled down the bright blade. And he knew then that he had done Thorin Oakenshield a great injustice, for the sword, so and light and strong, was truly the fairest love-token that a dwarven smith could have given to a lady of the Rohirrim.

Contrite, he gave the sword back to her and said: “I fear I have misjudged him, my lady. For I thought him boastful, and vain, and deluded; and, knowing you, I could not imagine you might love such a one.”

“He is none of those things, Gandalf; and I love him indeed,” she said, and there was a defiant look in her eyes.

“But, if there be any sense in asking this,” said the baffled wizard, “…why?”

“Why? Can there ever be talk of whys and wherefores in this matter?” Helmwyn thought about it for a moment. “If I must name aught, I will say it is because of his strength, and his quiet dignity, and his sense of duty to his people, and his love of work well done.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Can this be the same Thorin Oakenshield that I met?”

“Oh, I know his faults well enough,” said Helmwyn. “I know that he is strong-willed to the point of stubbornness, and mistrustful, and proud, and quick to anger. But your words were meant to wound, Gandalf, and I will not blame him for refusing to submit to your mockery.”

“Aye, I have a sharp tongue, my lady,” said Gandalf, “and so does he; I daresay we were evenly matched. But I deserve your scolding, for I was rash to dismiss your love, and for that I must beg your forgiveness.”

Helmwyn laid a hand on the old man’s arm, to signify that she accepted his apology. But her other hand clutched the sword to her breast almost like a beloved infant; and Gandalf pitied her for her strange, sorrowful love.

“I see that you do not like him, Gandalf,” she said. “Nay, do not deny it, for it is plain enough. But I wish you could see him as I see him. He is bold and strong and proud and stubborn and magnificent. He commands men’s love and loyalty, and draws them like a lodestone – and so was I drawn. His destiny shines bright, and my fate is bound up with his.”

Gandalf saw how the lady’s eyes shone when she spoke of Thorin Oakenshield. He gave her a long look. “And you have waited for him.”

“Aye, I have waited.” She hung her head. “I would have followed him, Gandalf, but his honour forbade it.”

“He was right,” said the old man; “for it is a hard life that the Dwarves have been living, on the road and in the Blue Mountains. And if they are happiest under a mountain, even their most splendid halls can become oppressive after a while for folk from other races. And certainly until the halls were finished, draughty caverns and leaky mineshafts would have been no place for a daughter of Men.”

“But did he not say his halls were near completion?”

“Aye, that he did.”

“How soon, Gandalf?”

Gandalf considered this. “I am a poor judge of dwarven architecture, my lady,” he said at last. “The Dwarves were still busy as ants when I visited; but the main hall and the upper chambers already seemed quite inhabitable. I would venture that an emissary might come in the spring.”

“In the spring…” Helmwyn closed her eyes. Gandalf thought she looked weary. She thanked him, and said they would talk more later, and that she would go and see to it that lodgings were prepared for him. She rose on tiptoe, and gave him a peck on the cheek, and walked away.

***

Gandalf watched her as she went, and shook his head.

What a pity, he thought to himself. She had been doing so well. She could have achieved so much. She was a clever girl, after all, and he would not have expected her to fall into the trap of sentiment. And Thorin Oakenshield, of all people! The Dwarf was insufferable. He combined everything Gandalf disliked about Dwarves with everything he disliked about Kings.

Gandalf sighed. Oh well, he would have to make do with old King Brytta, and with that handsome dunce of a son of his. Stolid, but not exactly the sharpest sword in the rack. At least that young man in Gondor had potential - what was his name. The ginger one. Thorondir, that was it.

The old wizard sat on a bench, and filled his pipe, muttering to himself about the foolishness of the young.

***

Helmwyn walked back to her chamber, cradling the sword Fearless.

She thought of the words she had spoken to Gandalf, of all the fine qualities she had seen in the lord Thorin. It had been nonsense, of course. She did not love the lord Thorin because he possessed these traits. She loved these traits because they were the lord Thorin’s. To be sure, other men possessed them too, yet she did not love them. Other men were strong and handsome and noble, yet she did not love them. Other men were captains, and princes, and warriors; yet she did not love them.

It had been his voice, she decided. His voice, and the look in his fierce, sorrowful eyes. There were no other whys and wherefores. She would follow him into a dragon’s den if he asked. She would follow him to the edge of the world, and beyond.

Helmwyn hung her sword up beside her armour again, and sighed. She went and sat at her table, and picked up the curious blue gem that the lord Thorin had sent her, and gazed into its depths.

It was such a very dwarven thing to give. Three years with no tidings, and then a jewel. Jewels meant little to Helmwyn; but she knew they meant much to a Dwarf. She could not begin to guess what such a gem signified for the lord Thorin; this only she knew: it was beautiful, and it meant _soon_. She wondered idly whether such gems grew beneath the earth, or whether he had somehow contrived to imprison the star within the stone. She imagined his great hands working it, handling it lovingly, and closing it into a casket. She imagined him growling at Gandalf; and she smiled.

In the spring, Gandalf had said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Inevitably, the Iron and stone song had acquired some naughty verses after going around the taverns of Minas Tirith for a bit.
> 
> (2) The name means ‘Victory-rune’. This may have not have been deliberate on Thorin’s part, but it worked.
> 
> (3) The guards had learned.


	49. Chapter 48

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 48**

 

Helmwyn strode down the hill from Meduseld and into the goldsmith’s workshop. She greeted the craftsman; and from a pouch, she spilled onto his workbench every piece of jewellery she owned. “Master Harald,” she asked, “can you use these to make a necklace wherein to set the lord Thorin’s jewel? For I have sworn to wear no ornament, unless it be that stone.” Not that she ever wore jewellery, except on ceremonial occasions; but she might as well use what she had, rather than take more gold from the much-depleted vaults.

The goldsmith considered the golden pile. “At least keep your belt,” he said, patiently. “You’ll need that.”

He did have a point. “Very well,” grumbled Helmwyn.

“And your circlet.”

“Must I?” She hated the thing.

“For ceremonial occasions,” said Harald. “And the brooches for your cloak.”

“All right, all right,” Helmwyn sighed. “But that is _all_.”

“Can I see the stone?” said the goldsmith. Helmwyn reluctantly handed over the starry blue gem. The master craftsman carefully examined the stone; and he marvelled at it, for he had never seen its like. “So,” he asked her, “what kind of setting were you thinking of?”

“Do you think you might attempt something…dwarven?”

***

The tale of the Dwarf King’s Jewel spread like wildfire, for it was truly a marvel to behold.

Harald the goldsmith had fashioned a necklace like a collar of interlocking plates, for the stone was heavy. The style of it was as dwarven as he could make it, which was not very, but that was neither here nor there; and the six-rayed star blazed at Helmwyn’s throat in the gloom of Meduseld. She wore it always; and she wore it with defiance, a silent reproof to all those who had thought her crazed, or pitied her, believing the Dwarf would keep her waiting forever.

It was not long before the _Iron and stone_ song acquired a few more verses – mostly bawdy, and now involving the Dwarf.

Waldred came visiting, partly to see the stone, and partly to congratulate his sister that her dreary chaste nights would soon be at an end. He quite fancied riding with her to the Blue Mountains when the time came, for that might prove entertaining. He took one look at the necklace, and quipped: “Sister! That thing looks like a collar. Don’t be surprised if people start calling you the Dwarf’s bitch!”

Helmwyn struck him across the mouth, so hard that his lip bled. Waldred stared at her in disbelief, but she looked coolly upon him, and walked away, nursing her grazed knuckles, and did not speak to her brother for weeks. King Brytta did his best to achieve a reconciliation, but there was bad blood between brother and sister.

And Helmwyn remembered that the lord Thorin had once told her that she was fortunate that both her brothers lived, and that she should love them; but Waldred had overstepped the mark, and she could not bring herself to forgive him.

***

There was one with whom Helmwyn needed to make her peace; but it was not her brother.

For the first time, and for the last, she rode to the place where her husband lay buried in his mound. She spoke not to her mother-in-law; she spoke to no-one, but walked to the mound, and poured a libation of mead onto the grass, and stood there long, her cloak billowing in the blustery wind, asking her husband for his blessing – and perhaps his forgiveness. She allowed herself to mourn him at last; for he had been a good man, and deserved to be mourned.

He had been her lover, and he had been her friend; and she hoped that wherever he was now, he looked on her love for the lord Thorin with that indulgent smile of his. She wondered whether he were truly feasting in the halls of his fathers. She had never really believed in any of that; then again, she had never really thought upon it, since there was no way of knowing. She found herself wondering where Dwarves went, and whether humans were admitted.

She rode back to Edoras, and began to put her affairs in order; and she had a wedding-gown made from velvet and brocade that she had brought back from Gondor (it had ludicrous sleeves, but that could not be helped). She ruled, with the starry jewel at her throat; and she was serene when, in the spring, the lord Thorin’s emissary came at last form the Blue Mountains with his retinue. She wore her heavy embroidered mantle, and stepped out onto the terrace to greet them to the sound of horns – and then she ran down the stairs like a young girl and swept the emissary into a hug. It was Balin.

***

“Formal adoption?”

Helmwyn and King Brytta stared at Balin in dismay. “Is there really no other way?”

Balin looked form the one to the other. Oh dear, he thought; they were not taking it well. To think he had been so pleased with himself for finding that legal loophole. “You see, my lady,” he explained, “then no-one will be able to object that you are not a Dwarf, and declare the marriage null and void.”

“But that is absurd!” said King Brytta. “My daughter is no Dwarf. Anyone can see that.”

“She would _technically_ be a Dwarf, my lord King,” explained Balin patiently.

“I will be a Dwarf because it says so on a piece of parchment?” asked Helmwyn in disbelief.

“If I formally adopt you,” said Balin, “you will be a _de facto_ Dwarf.”

“Despite the fact that I was born human?”

“Regardless of your species of birth, yes,” said Balin.

“And even though I will be standing there next to her and giving her away?” said the King.

“Regardless, my lord King.” Balin calmly went over it once more. “I have checked and checked again. When I adopt the lady Helmwyn, she will be considered a Dwarf according to our law, with all the rights and privileges that go with the status. And that includes marrying another Dwarf – and ensuring that your children are considered Dwarves, too.”

Helmwyn and her father exchanged a look. Helmwyn looked crestfallen; but King Brytta patted her hand. “Well now,” he said; “we can’t have your children be little half-breeds, now, can we. Problems with the line of succession, and all that. I suppose we had better do as Master Balin suggests.”

Helmwyn said nothing, but threw her arms around her father’s neck.

***

Leaving the Mark was a wrench for Helmwyn, although she had spent the last three years wishing that she were elsewhere, and that time would not crawl so. Now that the time of leaving had come, though, she felt as though her heart were being torn out piece by piece.

She took her leave of her brothers, for Walda needed to stay and rule in the King’s stead while he was gone; and he embraced his little sister tightly, but could not think of anything to say, save things like “I hope you’ll be happy.” As for Waldred, Helmwyn’s love for him was strained, and they parted coolly.

It was bitter, walking down the steps from Meduseld for the last time, and riding down the hill, past all the folk who had assembled to wish her well; and when they had ridden some way out of Edoras, she turned to look one last time on her birthplace, the Golden Hall, glinting in the distance as the swift clouds raced across the morning sun. Proud and strong and fair it looked, on its high hill, overlooking the wide green land; and in her heart Helmwyn blessed it, and bade it farewell.

More bitter still was her farewell from Lindburg. They had stopped there on their way west, and Helmwyn took her leave of her beloved kin, and her most beloved place, dearer than home. She went and sat under the old linden tree once again, and traced the outline of the runes carved in its bark, and listened to the rustling of its boughs; and her heart was filled with both joy and sorrow – joy that she would soon see the lord Thorin again, and sorrow that she must leave the place where she had been happiest. She was sad that the tree was not yet flowering, for she would not see it blossom again.

And she went to embrace her dear uncle, and her little cousin - who was no longer so little, but had grown willowy and long-limbed, and looked set to become taller than she was. Last of all she embraced her aunt Ortrud, and weeping told her that she loved her like a mother - or more than a mother, in this particular case. But Ortrud understood what was meant. She hugged her niece tightly, and whispered loving words in her ear. But then she smiled her bright smile, and added: “Now go to that handsome brooding Dwarf of yours, and make up for lost time!”

***

Helmwyn was relieved at least that her father rode with her, together with a large company of horsemen. For though the King would have to return to the Mark, a retinue of Riders would stay with the lady Helmwyn in the Blue Mountains, to serve and guard her there. Not that she expected to need much guarding, for it was a peaceful part of the world; but they would be part of her household, and her heart was eased to have countrymen near her. Indeed, she expected that most of them would beg to return to the Mark ere long; but all had volunteered – perhaps they thought it would be easier than hunting Orcs. Most of the men were unwed, and eager to see new lands; but some had brought their wives. Amleth too had come, and offered to stay, together with his wife Gerhild; and Helmwyn was glad of their company.

Indeed, the going was merrier than Helmwyn would have thought. Though her heart had been heavy upon leaving the Mark, yet her father was there, and his good humour was infectious. It was almost as good as being on patrol again. They slept under the open sky, and rode through the open country, and the Eorlings’ joy in it was such that the Dwarves often complained that they rode too fast for their ponies – though in truth they did not ride at all fast, on account of the baggage.

The Dwarves were guarded at first; and to tell the truth, they were rather unsure about this whole business of their Prince marrying a lady of the race of Men. But then they saw that the Riders were grave and courteous, and curious of their folk; and they saw that the King and the lady rode beside Balin in friendship. In the evenings by the campfire the Dwarves and the Riders would exchange tales about farming, and trade, and the killing of Orcs. And some Riders who had fought alongside Dwalin and Thorin Oakenshield spoke well of them; and the Dwarves concluded that these Eorlings weren’t such a bad sort, for humans.

Helmwyn spent much of the journey talking to Balin, asking him to tell her everything there was to know about dwarven culture. She listened eagerly, though it all seemed rather confused, and she could not for the life of her tell the various Durins apart. She would have had to take notes. She also asked him to teach her the secret tongue of the Dwarves; after all, she reasoned, if she was to become a Dwarf herself, she would be expected to know it. Balin was strangely reticent at first, but then he had to agree that she was right. And so he taught her Khuzdul.

That is to say, he tried. Helmwyn had always thought she had a reasonably good ear for languages. After all, she mastered both her native tongue and the common speech, as well as having a smattering of schoolgirl Elvish. But Khuzdul was something altogether different. She had only gotten as far as “Hail”, “Please”, and “Thank you”, and she was already struggling.

“ _Zabirakhmu_ … No. _Zabirakhjami_ … There was a _–zu_ at the end, wasn’t there?”

“ _Zabirakhajimuhazu_ ,” said Balin patiently.

“Oh dear. _Zabirakh-aji-muhazu_ ,” repeated Helmwyn, hoping that splitting it up would help. “ _Zabirakhajimuhazu_. Ye gods, what a mouthful. And that means…?”

“Please,” Balin reminded her.

“Oh dear,” said Helmwyn.

“Can you remember the greeting?”

“Er…Was it _Shamukh_?”

“Very good. And ‘Thank you’?”

Helmwyn thought about it for a while, and froze. “I am sorry, it is gone. Was there not a _–zu_ at the end, too?”

“ _Âkminrûk zu_ ,” Balin supplied.

“ _Âkminrûk zu_ , that was it,” said Helmwyn. “ _Âkminrûk zu_. Right. And what was ‘Please’ again? _Zirak_ -something? _Zarbi-_ …?” Balin winced to hear his sacred tongue being butchered thus. Helmwyn gave up. “I am sorry,” she said, and sighed. “I fear it is useless.”

“Don’t be disheartened, my lady. You are doing very well,” Balin lied.

“Balin,” she said drily. “I have managed to learn one-and-a-half words. That is pathetic.”

Balin chuckled. “Well, lass, in your defence, I will say that is not an easy tongue to learn. That is really the whole point of it. But be comforted; for now, it is enough that you are able to speak your marriage vows.”

“Let us hope I shall manage to learn those at least,” Helmwyn grumbled.

“Oh, by the way, since we are speaking of your marriage…”

“Yes, Balin, what is it?”

“I know you will be very happy to see the lord Thorin again after all this time, my lady,” said Balin; “but just to avoid giving the wrong impression… _do_ try not to kiss him in public.”

Helmwyn was puzzled. “Why? Is it not done?”

Balin wondered how to put it politely. “…Not in _public_.”

“Oh.”

“Our people would find it…rather _forward_.”

“Oh. I see.”

Helmwyn thought back to that first night in the cave. The lord Thorin must have thought her rather forward, then. Then again, Helmwyn reflected, she _had_ been. Poor love. Her timid little kiss must have seemed to him like an outright assault - to say nothing of what followed. No wonder he had been so overwhelmed. She tried to imagine what had gone through Thorin’s mind, and laughed at the happy misunderstanding.

“Why do you laugh, my lady?” asked Balin, though he was not sure he wanted to know.

“I should call you lord Balin, really, shouldn’t I,” said Helmwyn, quickly changing the subject.

“And I should really stop calling you lass,” Balin said. They both smiled.

***

They made camp, and ate in fellowship, and lay down to sleep under the stars. They had tents with them, but neither the King nor his daughter would hear of them, for the weather was fair; and they lay on their bedrolls looking up at the starry sky, as they had done when they were out on patrol.

“Child,” King Brytta told his daughter all of a sudden, “I know that our parting will be the saddest moment of my life, but I cannot help but feel glad of this voyage. It is too long since we rode out together; and it is too long since I saw you smile.” Helmwyn turned away from the stars to look at her father. “It broke my heart to see you cooped up and unhappy in Meduseld.”

Helmwyn reached out to squeeze her father’s hand. “I too am glad that we could make this journey together, Father.” They held each other’s hand in silence for a while.

“I am sorry I shall not see your children,” the King mused.

“Father, please. I shall grow maudlin if you go on.”

“I should have liked to see a bearded grandchild of mine. Is it true they are born with beards?”

Helmwyn grinned. “Aye, so I have heard.” She imagined an infant Thorin, complete with beard and scowl. She would have liked to see that, too. “Goodnight, Father,” she said, and curled onto her side, and fell soundly asleep, clutching her sword.

***

The featureless plains of Dunland had given way to low wooded hills; but these in turn had grown taller, and their valleys deeper, and forests of fir and pine now reared on the heights, and Balin told them that they had reached the Blue Mountains at last. The sun shone hot, for summer was upon them; but at night it was cool in the mountain-passes, and the woods were shrouded in a pale mist. Helmwyn looked out on the rolling mountains in the silvery light of the moon, and wondered whether she would come to love this land. Forests made her nervous, because she thought ever of Orcs lurking therein; but these woods most likely held no more than boar and deer, and perhaps the occasional bear.

Or perhaps her nervousness was of another kind. She felt it rising with every new day, like a swarm of bees in the pit of her stomach; and she had to ask herself in earnest whether she truly desired the long-awaited reunion with the lord Thorin, or whether she did not in fact fear it. Would their love still be the same, after three years apart? Would he find her changed? Would he still find her alluring? In truth, the lines of her face were somewhat sharper, and the lines of her body somewhat fuller; and she would have said that she had grown old with care, and fat from lack of practice. Perhaps she feared that they had dreamt of each other for so long, that reality would only fall short of their memories.

They followed a path that ran along a swift brook, up into a valley that lay sheltered between the folds of the hills. Beyond the valley was one height, taller than the surrounding hills, and Balin pointed towards it: “That is where Thráin’s halls lie,” he said. “Tomorrow we shall reach them, and approach them by the road that skirts yonder hill; but for today let us rest, and ready ourselves, for tomorrow we shall have a wedding!” And the men, hearing that, cheered, and blew their horns. Balin sent riders ahead to carry the news of their arrival; and the Eorlings set up camp, and this time raised a pavilion for the king, and another for the lady, and Amleth went around the camp shouting at the men: “And don’t you lot dare get drunk tonight! Tonight I want you all polishing your armour. We are ambassadors of the Mark! Tomorrow, I want you all to _gleam_!”

Helmwyn bathed as best she could in her tent, and washed her long hair, and combed it, and let it dry across her shoulders; and she threw on a shirt and breeches, and bade her women good-night, and they left her alone. And Helmwyn sat by the brazier, for the night was chill, and by the dim light of the lamps she studied a small piece of parchment, over and over again.

Her marriage vows. She had been learning them for weeks, one meaningless phrase at a time, a whole litany of uncouth syllables – some prayer to Mahal, apparently; but she would be saying that at the same time as the lord Thorin, so she could cheat if she needed to. What she could not afford to mistake, though, was the question-and-answer sequence. If she got any of that wrong, there would probably be someone to object that the whole marriage was null and void. It would be just like the Dwarves to do that.

Helmwyn glanced at the parchment, then closed her eyes. “ _In your Halls I will find a house…_ ” She opened one eye to peek at the parchment. Yes. That was it. She closed her eyes again. “ _...in my heart you will find a home. In your Halls I will find a house_ ”, she recited _,_ “ _in my heart you will find a home._ _In your Halls I will find a house, in my heart you will find a home…_ ”

“ _In my Halls you will find a house, in your heart I will find a home_ ,” answered a deep voice behind her. Helmwyn caught her breath, and turned around. There stood the lord Thorin by the entrance of the tent. He was clad in rich hunting garments, and looked quietly powerful; and he smiled. Helmwyn beheld his piercing eyes, and his handsome face, and his great mane of dark hair, and her heart leapt in her breast. She stumbled to her feet; and they stood long, gazing at each other.

Helmwyn felt a little self-conscious, for there she was in tired riding-clothes, with damp hair; while Thorin appeared to her more lordly than she had ever seen him. But Thorin smiled to see her thus, for there he had her again, his shieldmaiden, and she appeared to him the same as in his most treasured memories.

“Time is a strange thing, my lord,” Helmwyn said, finding her voice at last. “For it seems to me now that we parted only yesterday, and that these long years of waiting have passed like a dream; and my love for you is undiminished, and burns as bright as it did when last I saw you.”

“To me, these years do not fade, my lady,” Thorin answered, “for they have been long, and busy; but ever was the thought of you in my heart. We have mined, and built, and crafted, and traded, and ever did I ask myself: what would _she_ think of this? What would _her_ decision be?” He took a few steps towards her, and his eyes were shining. “But tomorrow you shall behold my halls, and I hope that you shall find them pleasing; for all that was done, was done but with you in mind.”

Helmwyn stepped closer still, and still they dared not touch, but gazed deep into each other’s eyes. “Tomorrow I shall behold your halls, my lord,” she said; “and I know they shall be fair, and I shall love them for your sake. But tonight, there is no place I would rather be than here; for now am I truly home.” And with that she stepped forward, and framed the lord Thorin’s face in her hands, and laid her brow against his.

Thorin raised his fingertips to Helmwyn’s soft, beardless cheek; and they closed their eyes. Their faces hovered so close together that Helmwyn felt Thorin’s eyelashes lightly brushing against her cheekbone. And they remembered each other’s closeness, and warmth, and breath, and touch, and scent; and their long-guarded hearts swelled with love. Thorin pulled his lady into his embrace, and whispered against her throat: “My love, at last”. And Helmwyn cradled his head in her arms, and buried her face in his hair, and breathed in deep. He smelled of leather, and fur, and metal, and pipe-smoke. There he was, her beloved lord; there he was at last.

They held each other close; and at last Thorin sought his lady’s lips, and drew her head down into a long, slow kiss. And their bodies too remembered, and their dormant desire flared up once more; and they twined their fingers in each other’s hair, and clung to each other fervently. “Will you stay tonight, my lord?” Helmwyn asked him, her breath shallow and her cheeks flushed.

“Nay, my lady, I cannot,” Thorin answered, though in truth there was nothing he wanted more; “my presence here is already a breach of protocol. But I did not want our first meeting after all these years to be in front of a crowd of watchers.” He drew her close, and coiled a lock of her hair around his finger. “I must ride back to see to the last preparations; but tomorrow, I shall welcome you into my halls, and we shall not part again.”

Helmwyn rested her brow against Thorin’s, and sighed; and perhaps it was as well that he did not stay that night, for the lamplight outlined their shadows against the canvas of the tent, and all could see them embracing. It was bad enough that the Dwarves had seen them kiss. “But tell me truly, my lord,” she said, “am I welcome indeed? For I would lie if I said I did not fear the reaction of your people.”

Thorin gave her a searching look. “Why? What has Balin told you?”

“He did not _say_ anything, as such. He merely hinted that a certain amount of… reluctance had to be overcome, and that certain obstacles had to be removed; but I guessed that not all of your kin approve of your choice.”

Thorin tried to word his answer as truthfully as he could. “My lady,” he said, “it is true that a few elders grumbled, for they abide by tradition. And it is true that a few of the younger Dwarves are discontented; for they were born in exile, and know the greatness of our people only from tales, and cling to tradition to preserve a sense of their own selves. But the greater part of my people are practical, and are glad of this alliance. Indeed, many are curious to see you; for my companions have spoken highly of you, and told tales of your deeds.”

Helmwyn laughed brightly. “And what deeds might those be, my lord? I must have killed a dozen Orcs at most, that does not count for much.”

“From what I hear, you are now credited with a few more dozens’ worth. That certainly earned you the respect of many.”

“Then I shall do my best not to disappoint. To think that we should make dead Orcs the measure of respect!”

Thorin smiled. “And then there are the songs, of course.”

Helmwyn froze. “What songs?”

“Have you not heard the one about iron and stone?”

“Oh, that! I am surprised it has made its way hither,” said she evasively. She hoped desperately that Thorin had not heard any of the several bawdy versions that circulated in the south.

“Indeed it has,” said he. “It has become quite popular here; and it has cheered me considerably.”

“How so?” asked Helmwyn with growing apprehension.

Thorin hesitated. “…I had heard news from traders, and that news was garbled and incomplete; for it was said that you had travelled to your kin in Gondor, and some even claimed that you were to wed some lord of that country.”

“They claimed _what_?”

“I know, I would not credit it,” said Thorin; but though he did not tell her that, the news had upset him, and he had been in a black mood for weeks, and Dís had made some very snide and unpleasant remarks. “But I spoke to the mariners myself, and they told a very different version of the story. They said it was your brother who sought a bride, and that you had accompanied him. But they said you had broken the hearts of half the lords in Gondor; for when they sought to woo you, you invariably replied that you had vowed to wed no man, and that your heart was of iron and stone.” He smiled. “Did you truly speak those words, my lady?”

“I did speak those words, my lord, or something like them,” answered Helmwyn, and her face was grave. “But the context was somewhat different. I only spurned two lords; and in truth the memory brings more shame than mirth to my heart. I was ungracious, and spoke harsh words; but the worst of the shame I felt on account of you.”

“What mean you, my lady?”

“I believe that I would not have been so angry, had not the worm of despair already begun to gnaw at my heart; for I had remained so long without tidings of you, that I was full of bitterness. I fear I had half-begun to doubt you, my lord.”

Thorin cupped his lady’s face in his great hand, and looked up at her from beneath those dark lashes of his. “I kept you waiting long, my love,” he said. “Forgive me.”

Helmwyn felt that his look would break her heart. “Aye, we waited long; but now our waiting is over,” she said, “and I have no regrets.” And she smoothed his hair back and kissed him. “Besides,” she added, “you made up for it handsomely when you _did_ send word at last.”

“…Did the gem please you?” Thorin asked, a little anxiously.

“Not as much as the sword,” Helmwyn teased him; “but yes. It is very beautiful.” She knew he would be pleased to prove Gandalf wrong.

“Aye, it is beautiful,” he said. “And I hold it a glad omen; for it reminded me of a legend of my people – of lake Mirrormere, and the stars that Durin saw in its depths.”

Helmwyn loved how earnestly Thorin spoke of the legends of his people. She kissed his eyelids. “It caused quite a stir,” she said.

“Aye, so I hear; for those tales too have reached us.” Thorin paused. “Is it true they call it the King’s Jewel?”

“It is, my lord.”

A wistfulness seemed to come over him. “That was one of the names for the Arkenstone of my fathers, which is now lost,” he said in a low voice. “But I take comfort in this, my lady, that you shall now be the jewel of my house; and generations to come will count themselves proud to be descended from a lady so rare.” Helmwyn thought his smile looked a little forced; and she knew that talk of the lost kingdom under the Mountain pained him.

“But come, my lord, tell me about your trade!” she said, changing the subject. “I wish to hear about all that you have done, all that you have achieved!”

“Nay, my lady,” Thorin laughed, “for if you encourage this Dwarf to talk about trade, we shall still be here at dawn! Nay. We shall have time for that later. I shall leave you for now, and leave you to your learning,” he said with a smile, and pointed to Helmwyn’s parchment. And then in earnest, he said: “But tomorrow we shall be wed, and part not in this world again.”

They laid their hands on each other’s heart, and touched brows one more time. “Tomorrow, my love,” Helmwyn said.

They were silent for a little while, but then Thorin said: “How has Dwalin’s needlework been holding up?”

Helmwyn smiled as he stroked the scar on her brow. “Dear Dwalin,” she said. “I shall be glad to see him again.”

“Well, he rode here with me,” said Thorin; “and he is right outside, if you wish to greet him.”

Helmwyn all but ran out of the tent, located Dwalin, and threw her arms around his neck. “Easy, lass!” he said, laughing. “It’s not me you’re meant to be marrying!”

Thorin greeted King Brytta warmly, while Dwalin and Helmwyn exchanged news. But then Thorin mounted up, and made to leave with his retinue; but Dwalin said he would stay a little longer. Thorin smiled, and took his leave, and rode back to his halls; but Dwalin could see that Helmwyn’s gaze followed him, and that she was beaming. He grinned, and prodded her arm to jostle her out of her daydream.

“Well, lass,” he said conspiratorially; “now that he’s gone, there’s something that I’ve been meaning to ask you. What about the business with the saddle? Is it a true story?”

Helmwyn smiled. “Aye, my friend,” she said. “The business with the saddle is true, every word of it.”

Dwalin roared with laughter.

***

Helmwyn lay on her cot, clutching her sword, as was her habit. She had blown out her lamps, and only the dying embers in the brazier glowed ruddy in the gloom. She was exhausted, but could not find sleep. The joy of seeing Thorin had been so great, and the talk with Dwalin and Balin so merry; and now, the eager anticipation for the morrow would not let her rest – that, and a vague fear of forgetting her lines. She drifted on the edge of sleep, rehearsing her marriage-vows in her mind. She kept telling herself that she needed to sleep, else she really _would_ forget them.

She half-heard the noises from the camp outside her tent, the quiet talk of the men on watch duty, the snorting of horses, the rustling of woodland creatures beyond. She was vaguely aware of footsteps nearby, but assumed it was just one of the men going for a piss. But there was something furtive about the footfalls, as though someone was trying to pass unheard. No man going for a piss moved like that. Helmwyn was suddenly wide awake, all her senses alert; for there was someone outside her tent. She felt the air stir as the canvas behind her was lifted. Without thinking, Helmwyn leapt from her cot, and drew her sword – and not a moment too soon, for an axeblade came whistling down, and buried itself where her neck had been not a moment before.

Helmwyn backed away, getting the brazier between herself and the intruder. It was a Dwarf - and she remembered thinking that he must have been a surprisingly stealthy one, too. He pulled his axe from the wreckage of her cot, and hissed something in Dwarvish, and started circling the brazier slowly. Perhaps he thought she was afraid.

Helmwyn feinted to the right, then kicked the brazier at her attacker; and while he raised his arm to shield himself from the smouldering coals, she lunged to his left, ducked, rolled, not heeding the coals, and took a sweeping stroke at his hamstrings. The Dwarf fell to one knee, cursing; but as he swung his axe to his left, Helmwyn was already behind him; and she struck him on the back of the head with the pommel of her sword. The Dwarf fell forward and was still.

It must all have been over in a moment. Helmwyn remembered thinking that Dwalin would have been proud of her; then her knees started shaking. At that moment another Dwarf rushed at her from the entrance of her tent; but before she could react, the Dwarf fell, with an axe in his back. Balin and Dwalin stood right behind him, weapons drawn.

“Are you all right, lass?” Dwalin asked.

Helmwyn nodded; but then her tent was filling up with Riders, who had also heard the commotion. “My lady,” cried the guards, “did you see who attacked you?”

“Brigands,” stammered Helmwyn. “It must have been brigands. These fellows rushed in to save me; but alas, they paid a bitter price for their loyalty.”

The camp awoke, and horses were saddled, and the Riders stormed off, looking for non-existent brigands; and Balin and Dwalin stamped on the fabrics that had begun to smoulder inside the tent, and gathered the scattered coals back into the brazier. King Brytta hugged his daughter, and commended Balin and Dwalin for saving her life. Helmwyn was left in her tent with Balin and Dwalin to guard her, and to tend to the fallen Dwarves, while the Riders were busy chasing a shadow. The tent smelt of singed hair. Dwalin pulled his axe from the dead Dwarf’s spine, and hoped no-one had noticed it.

“Good thinking, lass,” said Balin. He had gone vey quiet and very pale.

“I doubt even my father would let me marry tomorrow, if he found out Dwarves did this,” said Helmwyn darkly.

The first attacker was not dead, for indeed it would have taken more than Helmwyn’s strength to crack a Dwarf’s skull. Dwalin examined him. “Is he one of yours?” he asked his brother.

Balin shook his head. “Nay, he did not travel with us. If he had, I daresay he would have struck before tonight.”

“We should wake him up and get him to talk,” rumbled Dwalin, and looked around the tent for a jug of cold water.

“He said something… ,” said Helmwyn tonelessly. “…it sounded like ‘ _Shamukh Uzbadinhu_ ’… ‘Greetings from the lady?’ No, that doesn’t make sense. It must have been ‘greetings, lady.’”

She felt like she was babbling, but Balin took her arm and looked her straight in the eye. “You are sure it was ‘Uzbadinh _u_ ’?”

“Yes.” She could remember every ghastly syllable of it; the Dwarf’s voice was seared in her mind. “And that means ‘ _from_ the lady’?”

Balin nodded.

“But what lady meant he?”

“I fear he meant the lady Dís, Thorin’s sister.”

There was silence. They could not look at each other.

“No, wait!” said Helmwyn. “I may be mistaken. Let us interrogate him before we jump to any conclusions, I beg you!”

Balin sighed. “Very well. Brother, you know what to do.”

Dwalin settled himself astride the unconscious Dwarf’s back, and poured cold water on his head. The Dwarf came to his senses with a jerk, and Dwalin grabbed hold of his arm, and twisted it behind him. The Dwarf would have cried out, but Dwalin held a knife to his throat. Balin stood out of sight, with a look of distaste on his face. Helmwyn crouched down and looked her would-be assassin in the eye.

“Who sent you?” she asked.

The Dwarf spat something in Khuzdul. She did not understand what he said, and in truth, all Khuzdul sounded like cursing to her; but the hatred in the Dwarf’s eyes was unmistakeable.

“I cannot understand you,” she said. “If you wish to curse me, you must do so in the common tongue.”

There came another flood of Khuzdul; and Helmwyn hoped that this Dwarf was betraying something important, not knowing that his captors understood him. She certainly did not; among all he said, there was not a word she recognized. Balin had not taught her to curse.

But he must have said something especially foul, for Dwalin barked at him; and the prisoner, realising there were Dwarves there, dried up. Balin hid his face in his palm.

“What did he say?” Helmwyn asked.

“Horrors,” answered Balin; “but nothing useful.”

Helmwyn thought about it. “We shall see. Every Dwarf values his right hand, does he not?”

She caught Dwalin’s eye; and in that moment he terrified her, he was so absolutely _efficient_. He handed his knife to his brother; and then slowly and conscientiously broke the assassin’s little finger. The Dwarf gave a strangled cry.

“And now you will talk. Who sent you?” Helmwyn asked again.

The assassin was panting with the pain, but he did not talk.

“You bastard!” Dwalin growled. “I’ll break every bone in your hand if I have to!” And with that he reached for the next finger.

“No, wait,” said Balin. “Bones can be set. Perhaps something more… searing might do the trick.” The brothers exchanged a look; then Dwalin began forcing the prisoner’s right hand towards the brazier. To be sure, the coals had almost gone out; but the prisoner struggled against his captor, and there was a look of terror in his eyes, for he knew well enough what fire-scarring could do. His strength was no match for Dwalin’s, though, and he struggled no more; and instead he spat out a gob of blood, and something else. It was his tongue.

Helmwyn stared at the thing, aghast; and the assassin gave a hideous gurgling laugh. Dwalin had had quite enough of this, and knocked him unconscious again. The three of them were silent for a long while; then Dwalin rose, and picked up the prisoner, and threw him over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of him,” he told Balin. “You stay here and look after her.” And he strode out of the tent with his charge, and flung him over his saddle, and explained to any nervous guards that this one was still alive, but needed to be brought back to Thráin’s halls for urgent medical attention.

Inside the tent Helmwyn clutched Balin’s hand. She was shaking. “What have we done? We tortured a Dwarf! What have we done?” she said, and hugged her knees. 

“That’s not what worries me the most,” said Balin, ashen-faced. “The real question is: what are we going to tell Thorin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: MWAHAHAHAHA! Yes, the Dwarves have gone Borgia! *hides behind the sofa*


	50. Chapter 49

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 49**

Thorin awoke with a smile on his lips. He was brimming with impatience, but he was also reasonably confident that the day would unfold as planned. Of course, it was always possible that Thráin would have an outburst, but he would deal with that when it came to it; he was not going to let that prospect spoil his mood.

He was surprised when Dwalin called on him, for it was still early; but he welcomed his friend affably, and, upon his request, dismissed the servants who were dressing him. Dwalin’s face was graver than he had seen it in years; and Thorin was at once seized with a cold fear that raised every hair on his body, for he remembered that he had left Dwalin with his lady the previous night.

Dwalin told him what had happened that night; that there had been an attempt on the lady’s life, and that she was unscathed. That the assassins had been Dwarves, but that one was dead and the other captured. He omitted to tell him about the bungled attempt at torture, or the fact that Dís might be involved. He was going to make damned sure of that first, before he broke it to Thorin. Dwalin did not want to upset Thorin any more than was necessary. After all, it was _supposed_ to be a day of rejoicing. Dwalin could not help thinking that it had begun rather badly.

By the time Dwalin had finished, Thorin had gone very quiet, and his knuckles had gone white. Dwalin could only guess at his friend’s simmering rage. For a while, Thorin said nothing. But then he asked, in a dangerously calm voice: “Those assassins… were they acting on their own initiative? Or were they sent?”

“Well,” answered Dwalin cautiously, “the prisoner is out cold; but he hinted that someone may have sent him.”

“Get him to talk,” Thorin growled. “Whoever is behind this, I want them brought before me in _chains_.”

“I’ll get onto him,” said Dwalin. “And I’ve posted guards at every exit. They have instructions to allow no-one to leave these halls. Anyone who tries to slip away will be held for questioning.”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dwalin, this is a wedding. Folk will be in and out of the halls all day!”

“Even so. My guess is that some people will get pretty nervous when they find out the lady is alive. And Balin’s lads are at the mouth of the valley; they’ll stop anyone who tries to leave by the road. And you can be sure that this lot at least are loyal.”

“And you say the Rohirrim know nothing of this?” Thorin asked.

“The lass had the good sense to lie. Said it was brigands.”

“They were not suspicious of two unknown Dwarves wandering about their camp with axes?”

“Well, it was dark. And I guess we all look the same to them.”

The trusting fools. Thorin sighed. “Thank Mahal for small mercies.” The last thing he needed was a diplomatic incident, on top of the attempted assassination.

“Don’t you worry,” said Dwalin, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll keep an eye on things. My lads will keep an eye on things. Nothing is going to happen to her.” He patted Thorin on the shoulder, and made to leave.

“Dwalin…,” Thorin called after him. “Are you sure you can trust your men?”

Dwalin held Thorin’s gaze for a while. “I’m not trusting anyone until we get to the bottom of this,” he said at last.

Thorin wondered how far the conspiracy spread; and it occurred to him that he too had been a trusting fool. But the thought never once crossed his mind to call the whole thing off.

***

“Too fat for my armour! This is unheard of,” grumbled Helmwyn as she struggled into her breastplate. She considered taking off her gambeson, but then thought better of it. She would not take any chances; not today. She sucked in her belly and tightened the straps, cursing under her breath.

“What of your gown?” asked King Brytta, rather baffled that his daughter had decided to arm herself.

“This is more likely to impress them,” said Helmwyn, who was already getting hot and bothered. “And since it is not a breach of custom among Dwarves to enter the King’s halls bearing arms…” – she slipped a knife into her left vambrace – “we shall go armed. After all, they have heard tales of the warriors of the Mark; tales about me. We mustn’t disappoint them, must we, Master Balin?”

“I believe your daughter is right, my lord King,” said Balin placidly. “The sight of yourselves and your guard in all your war-glory would certainly make an impression on my people.”

Helmwyn had confided in Amleth, and told him of the night’s events; and he had discreetly instructed his men to be on their guard. But she did not wish to alarm her father. He would most likely get upset, and call the whole thing off. She did not want that. She had waited long enough for this day, and she was damned if she was going to wait any longer. She had to hope that a few score royal guards with their swords and spears would be enough to protect her father and herself if things got ugly.

Who knew what else these people might attempt. Today - during the ceremony; or during the feast; or at night, when all slept, drunk and content, thinking themselves safe. Today, thought Helmwyn, or later, when her father was gone, and she would be at the mercy of strangers, with only a few household guards to protect her. Helmwyn was angry, and she was afraid. She did not fear death in battle, for there at least she could meet her foe face to face. But intrigue, to live in perpetual fear and mistrust, to expect an assassin’s blade at any moment, in her own home…that was something Helmwyn had never had to deal with.

At least, she thought darkly, with this show of strength, she might yet convince them – and herself – that she was not that easy to kill.

***

Balin rode ahead, attired in red velvets and flanked by dwarven heralds; and behind him rode the King of the Mark, his daughter, and his Riders. Dwarves had come out to watch them as they rode through the settlement and towards Thráin’s halls; though it was hardly a throng, and the town did not have a very festive air about it. Balin explained that these were merely workshops and outbuildings, and that most of the folk waited inside the halls, and King Brytta was satisfied with that.

In truth, there were a few half-hearted attempts at cheering from the crowd, which the King acknowledged graciously; but mostly the Dwarves were awe-struck by the tall Riders on their tall grey steeds, with their bronze armour flashing in the sun, and the pennants on their spears streaming in the wind. Many of the Dwarves were unsure where the bride was, until they made out one Rider of smaller stature, with no beard, and a blue cloak instead of a green; but unlike her father, she was unsmiling.

They reached the foot of the red cliff, and dismounted. Above them the entrance of Thráin’s halls loomed, carved with pilasters and crenellated parapets, and framed by two gigantic images of dwarven warriors clutching an axe. (1) Helmwyn looked upon the grim, bearded, helmeted statues, and remembered what Thorin had once told her of the stone sentinels that guarded Erebor. The effect was grand, but not especially welcoming.

Balin led the way, up the steps and through the gateway; and the Eorlings followed. He brought them to an antechamber, where several official-looking Dwarves awaited. They wore dark robes, long grey beards, and disapproving expressions; and one of them unrolled a long piece of parchment, and began to intone whatever was written upon it. It took quite some time, and the soldiers began to fidget. Helmwyn had assumed that this was some sort of formal welcome; but it began to dawn on her that this could likely be the official adoption procedure.

This was confirmed when the document had at last been read out, and Balin bent over it to sign it, and seal it with his signet-ring. He turned to Helmwyn with a wistful smile. “There you are, my lady,” he told her; “You are now officially a Dwarf. Congratulations.”

In that moment, all that Helmwyn could feel was anger; anger that her parentage had been so simply stripped from her at the stroke of a quill. “Do not worry,” said the King to her in a stage whisper; “it is only a piece of parchment. You shall always be my daughter.” The black-robed Dwarves glared at him. Evidently, for all their belief in the written word, they believed the same.

The heavy doors to the great hall swung open. Helmwyn glanced at Amleth, who nodded to her, as if to say: We’re right behind you, lady. She took a deep breath, and swept in, scowling, framed by both her fathers, and flanked by warriors in gleaming scale-mail. There was no music, for to Dwarves, that would only have interfered with the solemnity of the words spoken; and there was no sound save of boots on flagstones, and the clink of armour. Even so, Helmwyn could sense that there was a stir among the watchers, like ripples spreading on still water.

The hall was grim, stony, forbidding. So were the watchers’ faces. Helmwyn’s eyes scanned the crowd, and she wondered why there were so few women. She also wondered how many of these folk wanted her dead.

***

A murmur spread through the crowd as the Men of the South marched down the length of the hall. In truth, they had half-expected barbarians; but now that they saw them, the Dwarves had to admit that the King and his guards looked very fine in their bright armour and their rich cloaks, and that their beards were rather good – for humans’. But they were especially curious of the lady. They had heard songs and tales about her, more or less garbled; and they had not known whether to expect a great beauty, or a woman built like a battle-charger.

But Prince Thorin’s bride was neither. She was not especially beautiful, for she lacked both beard and bosom, and was entirely too slender (though she did possess a fine head of hair). But her slight frame was armour-clad, and she carried a helm under one arm, and was girt with a sword, and looked anything but winsome.

Whether or not the Dwarves approved was another matter.

***

Dís watched with distaste and growing apprehension as the horse-people approached, striding into the hall armed to the teeth, as if they owned the place. And there was that _woman_ who had ensnared her stupid, stubborn brother. Armed like a man, she was; and it seemed the armour was not merely for show. The skinny bitch could fight. Dís shot her a look of pure loathing.

But then she felt someone sidle up behind her, and heard a voice in her ear.

“You’d better call your assassins off, lady,” said Dwalin in a low growl, so low that only she could hear. “If anyone tries anything, you’ll feel my knife between your ribs.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about-” she hissed, but stopped as she felt a point press into the small of her back. She tensed, and went very still; but Dwalin could have sworn that she moved her head imperceptibly from side to side. He hoped that she had caught her accomplices’ eye, however many there were. He hoped they would obey her.

The King’s guards fanned out, screening King Brytta and his daughter from the crowd. But there were also watchers in the galleries above. Dwalin scanned the crowd, watching for anyone who looked like they might be concealing a crossbow. Dwalin’s guards and the Eorlings could probably fend off a conventional attack; but he doubted the lady’s armour would stop a crossbow bolt.

***

Helmwyn reached the dais at the end of the hall, where the lord Thorin stood, surrounded by a number of important-looking dwarven personages. He was clad magnificently in black and silver; and he radiated power and pride, but also, Helmwyn thought, cold anger, and defiance. They exchanged a long look as she climbed the stairs to the dais, but Helmwyn could not read in his eyes how much he knew. He did not seem surprised to see her armoured.

Balin bowed before a great Dwarf in blood-red armour, grim-faced and grey-bearded, with a tattoo on his brow and an empty eye-socket. Helmwyn guessed this could only be Thráin. He looked fearsome, a mountain of a Dwarf, a lord and a warrior; and yet his eye was strangely vacant, as though his mind dwelt on something far away.

Balin unrolled another long scroll, and began declaiming some more Khuzdul (2). Helmwyn glanced around her. There was a young Dwarf woman, crowned with heavy black braids and hung with jewels. She had a proud bearing, and would have been beautiful, but for the scars that marred one side of her face. There could be no doubt that this was Dís, Thorin’s sister. Helmwyn saw enmity and fear in the young woman’s eyes. She also saw that Dwalin stood close behind her. Dwalin was watchful, and kept his eyes on the crowd.

Despite the fact that she had hardly slept that night, Helmwyn’s every sense was alert. She expected an attack at any moment; she was ready for it. She grasped the hilt of her sword, Fearless, and stroked the blue gems in the pommel, to give herself courage, and tried to calm her racing heart.

She stole a glance at Thorin. She almost did not recognize him, so distant and aloof did he seem. She had fallen in love with a warrior and a smith; but beside her now stood a prince, and she struggled to find in this proud lord the Dwarf who had worked in his shirtsleeves, and kissed her in the grass of the Mark. The Thorin who had dirty fingernails, and tied his hair back with scraps of cloth instead of silver clasps.

King Brytta was handed an ornate ceremonial hammer, and Balin whispered to him to hold it aloft to bless the bride and bridegroom. Brytta performed his task graciously, though in truth he felt a little absurd. Thorin began to intone something, and Helmwyn recognized the prayer to Mahal, and joined in, a little hesitantly at first; but much to her surprise, the words came back to her. Perhaps it was because she was thinking on something else. As the harsh sounds of the dwarven tongue echoed about the hall, Helmwyn looked upon Thorin’s profile, so much like Thráin’s; and it suddenly occurred to her that he was not human. None of these people were. She began to panic.

The litany ended, and Balin resumed his reading of what was in fact a complex legal document. Balin droned on and on, and it felt like forever, and Helmwyn’s mind kept wandering. Her belly was sour with fear. She kept glancing at the Dwarves with their stern faces and their rich clothes and heavy furs, at the cold and grim stone walls, and all of a sudden Helmwyn was tempted to run away, back to the Mark, to spend the rest of her days riding under the glad sun, alone but alive and free.

But then Thorin turned to face her, and took a step towards her, and laid his hand on her breastplate, over the golden flower of the house of Eorl.

“ _In my Halls you will find a house, in your heart I will find a home_ ,” he said, and such was the look of tenderness in his blue eyes that Helmwyn forgot about assassins, forgot about the disapproving gaze of the watchers, forgot about her fears; and then she saw only him. She remembered that he bore the device of the flower - her device - inked upon his chest; and she laid her own hand over it, and thought she could feel the slow, steady beat of his strong heart through the layers of mail and velvet. “ _In your Halls I will find a house, in my heart you will find a home_ ,” she said; and Thorin smiled.

***

They exchanged rings, and laughed, for neither of the rings fit, but it mattered not; and as Balin waded through the concluding blessings, or codicils, or whatever they were, Thorin and Helmwyn stood close together, and he gently pulled her head down until her brow touched his.

Some Dwarves cheered, and some did not; but the clash of the Eorlings’ arms helped to encourage the undecided. In truth, these were the majority; but they saw that there was love between this unlikely pair, for that was plain to see. And so they dutifully cheered for the sake of their Prince; for after all, he had done much to improve their fortunes, and might be forgiven a misguided choice of a bride, as long as trade remained good.

The bride and groom could not remain wrapped up in each other, but broke apart, and engaged in a necessary round of meeting and greeting. Helmwyn was brought before Thráin, and bowed low before him, and greeted him in her best Khuzdul, such as it was. The Dwarf King stared at her, and Thorin sucked in his breath, and Balin hid his face in his hands; and Helmwyn realised she had probably made a ghastly mistake. But then Thráin laughed, a great bellowing laugh, and wiped tears of mirth from his eye. He seized the dumbfounded Helmwyn by the shoulders and shook her good-naturedly, exclaiming: “Good! Very good!” then he clapped Thorin on the shoulder and said: “Good for you, son! I like her!” and went away laughing.

“What was it you were trying to say, lady?” asked Balin carefully.

“Erm. Something along the lines of ‘I greet you. May your axe be ever strong.’ Why, what did I actually say?”

Balin sighed. “I’m afraid it came out sounding like ‘Is that an axe in your hand, or are you just pleased to see me?’

Helmwyn was mortified; but Balin patted her hand and told her that all in all, it may actually have been for the best.

***

Meeting Dís was not nearly as pleasant. The two women exchanged icy looks, and Dís stiffened as Helmwyn bent to kiss her on the cheek, and called her ‘sister’.

As soon as Thorin had his back turned, Dwalin took Dís by the arm and whisked her away out of the hall. “You’re coming with me, lady,” said he.

“Get your hands off me!” snarled Dís.

But Dwalin was having none of it. He seized her none too gently by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Now you listen to me,” he growled. “Whatever you were playing at, it’s over. Your axeman has spoken,” he lied. “So you had better cooperate. And then maybe, if I’m in a good mood, your brother need never find out you were behind this.”

Dwalin saw the flicker of fear in Dís’ eyes when he mentioned the axeman. _So it was true_. He saw her struggle for a moment, but then she seemed to understand that she had lost. “You swear that you will not tell Thorin?” she asked, too proud to plead.

“Aye. _If_ you give me the names of your accomplices. We’ll catch them anyway; but that way there’ll be less of a fuss. You don’t want there to be a fuss, now, do you, lady?”

Dís gave Dwalin a venomous look, but said nothing as he dragged her down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Hogni had gotten his way for the façade, at least.
> 
> (2) According to the Dwarrow Scholar dot net, it is the father of the bride who officiates at a dwarven wedding ceremony. For that alone, it had been worth it for Helmwyn to have herself adopted. Just try to picture poor old King Brytta struggling through page upon page of phonetic Khuzdul. It would have been a disaster.


	51. Chapter 50

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 50**

 

As Dwalin had anticipated, a few nervous Dwarves had tried to slip away quietly after the ceremony, when they saw that the southern lady was alive and well and angry, and that Dwalin was breathing down the lady Dís’ neck. They had been stopped by guards and brought protesting to the cellars (there were no cells as such in the Blue Mountains, for the Dwarves had been too stunned by war and exile to perpetrate anything more than ordinary misdemeanours).

They were kept separately, and questioned. They would admit to speaking with the lady Dís; they would admit to meeting, to bemoan the lord Thorin’s intended marriage; but they would admit to no more than that. They were told that the assassins had spoken; and they would resort to pleading and denials and mutual accusations. They were told that the lady Dís had given their names; and they hung their heads and fell silent. At least, Dwalin thought, the conspirators’ faith in the lady Dís was now destroyed.

At last, Dwalin brought Thorin down to the cellars. His face was like thunder; and he spoke not one word to the prisoners, but they all shrank beneath his withering gaze.

They pleaded. They had all had been involved, aye; but no-one was actually guilty of anything. The lords’ and the merchants’ hands were clean; it was all the poor bastard miners’ fault, for they had taken it upon themselves to do the dirty work. No-one had ordered them. No-one had paid them. They were fanatics.

Thorin beckoned to his bride, and bade her look the conspirators in the eye. Some could not conceal their contempt for the woman. Others had the decency to look down.

Thorin led his bride back into the corridor, and whispered to her: “What would you have me do with them?”

“What would be an appropriate punishment according to the laws of your people?” she whispered back.

“Exile, or the mines,” he said. “But I fear exile may have lost its sting; and besides, I would keep them close, and not have them wander around, spreading discontent and conspiracy among the other dwarven clans… What say you, my lady?”

She looked at him sadly. “I would have your people like me, my lord. That will not happen if you send these Dwarves to toil down a mine for the rest of their days; but neither, I fear, will they like me any better if I bid you pardon them.” She thought about it. “Sentence them as you see fit, my lord; and sentence them fairly. I would not have it said that Prince Thorin’s vengeful human wife is making a tyrant of him.”

Thorin gave her a bitter smile. “Very well. I shall sentence them to seventy-five years’ labour down the mines, and thereafter two-thirds of their earnings to be confiscated.”

Helmwyn was horrified, but then reminded herself of the lifespan of Dwarves. “Forced labour and a fine? Is that not a little…lenient?”

“Well no,” said Thorin, and explained: “For a Dwarf, there is nothing so painful and humiliating as having his earnings taken from him.”

“Do you not have taxes?”

“This would be in addition to the taxes.”

Helmwyn tried to understand what such a punishment would mean to a Dwarf. She did not know how much a former convict could hope to earn, but she could imagine the hardship that would befall these proud Dwarves, only so recently risen from exile and destitution. “And they would still be productive members of the community,” she said.

“Precisely,” said Thorin. “If we were to merely lock them up, they would be no use at all.” Helmwyn could see the sense in that, though it seemed rather strange to her. “But this I promise you,” he went on. “When the assassin can be persuaded to…communicate, or one of the others breaks, and we find out who it was that gave the order…I promise you it shall go ill with him.”

“What will you do?”

Thorin wondered how to phrase it. “He shall… no longer be a productive member of the community when I am done with him.”

The prisoners were brought together into one room, for Thorin wanted to observe their reactions when the sentence was announced. The Dwarves looked devastated, though Helmwyn suspected that the loss of earnings was actually a worse punishment for them than the hard labour. One of the conspirators, a patrician in velvet robes, became indignant: “I demand a public trial!” he cried. “I demand to be heard by the elders of our folk!”

Thorin turned his gaze on him. A money-lender. A pillar of the community. Thorin strode up to him and leaned as close into him as he could, without actually touching him. “You _demand_?” Thorin growled. “You would have a trial, and drag my sister’s name into the mud? Be advised that my lady bade me treat you fairly, and that is exactly what I intend to do. One more impudent word from you, and I shall have your tongue.” He turned away from the protesting Dwarf and addressed all the conspirators in a commanding voice: “If anyone else believes the sentence too harsh, you know what to do. Tell us who sent the assassins, and I might be persuaded to be merciful.” He turned to leave. As an afterthought, he added, to the guards: “One last thing. So that all shall know their infamy… _shave them_.”

***

For all her defiance, Dís quaked when she saw the expression on her brother’s face. She rounded on Dwalin. “You promised you would not tell him!” she cried.

Dwalin remained impassive. “I lied.”

Dís looked desperately from him to her brother, and her eyes began to fill with tears. “I swear I did not want this,” she stammered. “You must believe me, brother! I never wanted this. I merely said that something ought to be done. They all agreed that something ought to be done. They said they would take care of it. I thought they were merely going to scare her.” Dís shot a glance at the _woman_ , who skulked by the door. Of course, Dís thought, her brother had to bring the horsy bitch with him, so that she could gloat.

Thorin gave his sister a long, cold look. “Aye,” he sneered. “You all agreed that _something ought to be done_. And then you sent two rabid axemen in the middle of the night, _merely to scare her_. But they got a little carried away. What reward did you promise them?”

“I promised them nothing!” Dís protested. “And I swear I did not send them! They acted of their own free will, to uphold the honour of the line of Durin, since you will not!”

Thorin flared up, and for an instant, Dís though he was going to strike her. “You _dare_ speak to me of honour,” Thorin growled. He gathered himself for a moment. “I shall tell you what I find truly sickening,” he said. “Your assassin had more guts and more loyalty that all of you put together. He spat out his tongue rather than betray you. And you, you all accuse one another, and try to wriggle out of it, and claim you knew nothing. You and your friends tried to kill my wife, but not one of you has the courage to stand up and say ‘Yes, by Durin, I did it, and I’d do it again!’ When did our race start spawning such weaselly cowards?”

Dís very nearly retorted something about the abominations their race would now spawn, but decided not to push her luck.

Thorin turned his back on her. “Did Father know about this?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Dís shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “You know how he is. Even I know how he is. He might have talked. He might have roared it from the hilltops. I would not risk that.” Thorin let out a sigh of relief; but then Dís added, under her breath: “But he would have approved.”

She watched for her brother’s reaction. For a long while Thorin said nothing; but when he turned around at last, the look on his face was one of cold pity. “You are a child,” he said, as though to himself.

That air of detachment terrified Dís more than his wrath could ever have. She was beginning to grasp the enormity of what she had done, of what had been done in her name. She was beginning to grasp that she may have lost her brother. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked Thorin with pleading eyes.

Ah yes, his sister’s pleading eyes. Thorin knew them well. They had always been her weapon of last resort. “Fear not, sister,” he said soothingly. “You are and remain the King’s daughter, and shall be treated with the very highest honour. Everything shall be done to ensure your safety. Your chambers shall be better guarded than ever before; and if you must leave them at all, then under good escort. None shall come near you, none shall speak a word to you save those who have my fullest trust. Your guards and your serving-women shall be hand-picked, and report directly to Dwalin and to myself. Fear not, dear sister,” Thorin said, and there was a steely edge in his voice. “You shall never be alone again.”

Dís glared at him through her tears; they both knew to what he had just condemned her. Under constant watch, she would be utterly alone. “What about Father?” she asked through clenched teeth. “May I still see him?”

“But of course!” answered Thorin genially. “We cannot deprive him of the pleasure and comfort of your company! Of course you shall see him. Under close supervision.” Dís hung her proud head, and sobbed bitterly.

“Take her away,” Thorin told Dwalin. “Take her back upstairs. Thráin’s daughter must be seen at the feast. She must smile graciously at our guests, and wave at the crowd. She must smile, for today is a day of rejoicing!”

Dwalin stoically led a defeated Dís out of the cellar, and the newlyweds were left alone. Thorin could not meet his wife’s eye. He sat down heavily on a crate, and hid his face in his hands. “My own sister,” he said in a hollow voice; and it seemed to Helmwyn that he wept.

Seeing him so utterly crushed, his great shoulders bent with grief under his regal garments, Helmwyn felt her heart break. She felt hideously guilty, for after all the whole sordid business had been her fault. Had it not been for her, Durin’s folk would have remained as strong and united in peace as they had been in adversity. And now they had been torn apart, because of her. Was not Thorin’s love for his people, his duty to his people, immeasurably more important than she was?

She stepped gingerly over to where he sat, and knelt before him, and placed a hand on his knee. She could not see his face. She could not blame him for resenting her. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said; and her voice was choked with tears. “I have brought nothing but strife between you and what is left of your kin.” She took a few ragged breaths before asking him what she must. “Do you wish me to leave?”

Thorin looked at her now, and she saw that his pale eyes were reddened. “Not you too,” he said in a broken voice. “Do not forsake me.”

“I will not forsake you,” said Helmwyn; and they embraced clumsily, weeping, and held each other tight for a long while. Helmwyn buried her face in Thorin’s black hair and his black sable furs; and something dawned on her then that she had never truly comprehended before. She realised that Thorin needed her. He needed her love. She realised how starved of affection he must have been. She realised he would need her to be strong. They would both need to be strong to face this ordeal together.

“It is I who must beg for your forgiveness,” said Thorin at last. “I was so sure of myself – so very sure. It was I who dragged you into this mess. I never once thought… I only ever wished for your safety, but now you find yourself in mortal danger because of me.” He stroked her hair. “You must think me very selfish.”

But Helmwyn shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive, my love,” she said. “If you are selfish, then so am I. All I ever wanted was to be with you; I cared not what the consequences might be - for either of us.”

Thorin framed her face in his hands, and head-butted her gently. “I once swore I would let no-one tear us apart,” he said; “did I not? And I hold to that”.

“And I swore I would cleave to you, whatever befall,” said she; “and I hold to that.”

They remained thus for a while, brow to brow; and Helmwyn was grateful that Thorin was so stubborn – perhaps she ought to thank Mahal for giving him that thick dwarven skull and that great dwarven heart.

***

Trestle tables had been set up and dressed in the great hall, in preparation for the wedding-feast; and musicians had begun playing in the galleries. And when the happy couple appeared again, beaming, the guests cheered them, and some even exchanged a few lewd comments about what had taken them so long.

The bride had changed out of her armour as a gesture of goodwill, and now wore a gown of deep blue velvet over a pale gold brocade. The starry jewel that Thorin had given her blazed at her throat, and she looked fair and proud and queenly, after the manner of the daughters of Men – though in truth Helmwyn felt vulnerable, and had concealed her two knives about her person.

Although she smiled graciously, she was wary; and so was Thorin. He had reeled from the blow of his sister’s betrayal, but now he had regained his composure; and he seemed powerful and debonair in manner and speech, and there was nothing to betray his hurt and anger, save perhaps a steely glint in his eye. He led his bride to the high table and sat beside her; together they were determined to display their strength and unity to the world.

As dishes were brought, Thorin insisted that his _dear sister_ should taste of everything first; and as wine was brought, Helmwyn smiled and insisted that her _dear sister_ be served first. Dís was pale and subdued, and dared not protest. Thorin did not seriously believe that there was any actual threat; but he did this mainly to hurt Dís, and to show any remaining conspirators that the game was up.

“Besides”, Balin leaned over and told Helmwyn, “I doubt there will be any more attempts on your life now, my lady.”

“How can you be so sure?” she asked.

“You see,” Balin explained, “killing a human is one thing, but killing a Dwarf is a different matter altogether. Now that you are officially a Dwarf, it will give them pause” – or so he hoped. (1)

Helmwyn stared at him, shocked. Balin gave her an apologetic shrug, as if to say he had not made the laws. Then she remembered to smile graciously.

Helmwyn glanced at the assembled guests, and thought they looked rather more benevolent than they had during the ceremony. She wondered whether they had only looked so grave on account of the solemnity of the occasion, or whether her fears had not made them seem sterner than they truly were. Or perhaps they were just a pack of vile hypocrites, she thought sourly.

Since her full attention was no longer bent on spotting assassins, she took in the great hall properly for the first time. The hall was of handsome proportion, with tall carved pillars, and it was brightly lit by sconces and crystal lamps that hung from the high ceiling on long chains; but there was no daylight. Though there were hallways leading into the hall and galleries overlooking the hall, there were no windows. Helmwyn reflected that Meduseld too lacked windows, and was rather dim; but at least Meduseld was warm and welcoming. This place was about as friendly as the Hornburg’s keep.

“Very…impressive,” King Brytta remarked.

“Oh, it isn’t much, really,” Balin replied; “but it’s cosy.”

 _Cosy?_ Thought Helmwyn, and wondered what Erebor must have been like. But she was well aware what an achievement it had been to carve out these halls in such a short time. It was Thorin’s achievement. Aye, she had seen Dwarves at work when they had quarried stone in Helm’s Deep; but she wondered how much labour had gone into this place.

She glanced at Thorin, and her heart swelled with gratitude for the love and loyalty he had shown her, and for all his hard work. She wondered whether he still worked in the forge now. She wondered whether he had helped chisel out this hall himself. She reached over and took his hand, and looked at it; and she smiled to see that the callouses were still there. Thorin gave her a questioning look; but she kissed the palm of his hand, and held it to her face. “Your halls are magnificent,” she whispered, knowing that it would please him; and indeed Thorin was surprised, and moved.

In truth, to a dwarven eye, the great chamber still looked rather crude, to say nothing of the rest of the settlement. Thorin had been a little embarrassed to welcome his guests with the halls looking as they did. But he would not wait any longer; and in any case, he guessed that the humans would be easily impressed. In an attempt to make it look less rough-hewn, the place had been hung with tapestries, great cloths in deep, jewel-like hues of blue and purple and crimson, such as only the Dwarves knew how to make.

The tapestries appeared at first to bear only geometrical patterns, triangles and squares and diamond-shapes such as the Dwarves loved; and indeed many of them did. But upon closer scrutiny, it seemed to Helmwyn that the great cloths were storied with figures and bearded faces, angular and hieratic. There were battles depicted, and mountain kingdoms, and kings and heroes; and though in truth she could not tell which was Erebor and which Khazad-dûm, and which was Durin and which was Thrór, her heart tightened when she recognized the figure of a black-bearded warrior locked in combat with a huge pale foe.

She looked at Thorin again, who appeared lost in thought; and she glanced at the fine mailshirt he wore under his furs. She wondered whether this was the same ill-fated shirt of true-silver rings that he had worn during the war against the Orcs, the one that had saved his life at the expense of his brother’s. She wondered whether she would have loved him, had he grown up to be the proud and contented Prince of Erebor; but had fate not thrown him on the roads, they would never even have met.

Thorin emerged from his melancholy thoughts, and found Helmwyn looking at him. He gave her a wan smile, and took her hand, and kissed it. The feast had become merry, and the Dwarves had begun to sing drinking-songs; and since they were Dwarves, even their boisterous drunken singing was tuneful. Dís had not spoken a word the whole evening; but it seemed King Brytta was managing to have a companionable - if not entirely coherent – conversation with Thráin.

Thorin sighed, and looked into his bride’s eyes. “I believe they have seen enough of us for today,” he said. “Let us retire.”

***

Thorin rose, and took his bride by the hand; and he frowned, and tried to ignore the leering that seemed to be compulsory on such occasions. He led her up staircases and down corridors to his chambers, and dismissed the guards and the servants who were lighting the fire and the lamps and generally fussing around – probably hoping to catch a glimpse of the bride in her underclothes, he thought.

The door closed, and the bride and groom were left alone at last. They stood around awkwardly, and their manner was stiff and formal, and they knew not what to say to each other. This was not how it was supposed to go.

Helmwyn had already seen the chamber when she had changed; but she looked around nevertheless, taking in the hearth, and the heavy oaken furniture, the carved chairs, the great four-poster bed, the rugs and tapestries and pelts – and the total absence of windows.

Thorin watched his bride take a few tentative steps around these chambers that would henceforth be hers. This was the moment he had so ardently wished for; but now it had a bitter taste.

He had always led, out of a sense of duty, out of sheer, grim force of will; and these past three years he had been sustained by memory and love and hope. But now, just now, when he thought he had brought his people to something resembling a home; when he would be reunited with his lady, when he thought that he could finally _rest_ – this had happened. Thorin felt weary, and he felt heartsick, and he felt guilty; and on this night of all nights, all he wanted to do was to lay his head on his lady’s breast, and let her soothe him like a child.

Helmwyn perceived the pall of sadness that hung over Thorin; and she knew that he had taken a wound that day – yet another one of those wounds that would never truly heal; and her heart bled for him. She went to open a chest of her belongings that had been brought to Thorin’s chamber; and from it she took a stoneware flask, bound with a green cord and sealed with wax.

“My lord,” she said, “we are wedded according to the dwarven custom; but I would ask you that this at least we do according to the custom of the Mark. Will you drink of this mead with me, for the sake of the love we bear each other?”

Thorin smiled at her request. “Aye, I will drink of this mead with you, my lady,” he answered; “and I believe I have a vessel that is suitable.” And he went and took from its casket the jewelled cup from Scatha’s hoard.

Helmwyn poured the mead, and held up the cup, and spoke: “I drink to thee now, Thorin Thráinsson, my lord, my love, my husband, my king. May our days together be long, and may they be blessed!” And she took a draught of the mead, and gave the cup to Thorin.

And he in turn raised it to her, and looked into her eyes, and spoke: “And I drink to thee, Helmwyn, Brytta’s daughter, my lady, my love, my wife, my queen. We are bound by the sweetest of bonds; and none shall sunder us.” And he drank from the cup.

Thorin closed his eyes, and tasted the mead on his tongue; and he was reminded of the day of their first meeting, when she had welcomed him on the windswept terrace before Meduseld. He recalled the evenings they had spent in Lindburg, sitting close together, listening to the skalds, or talking quietly under the fragrant boughs of the linden tree. He recalled their first kiss, and their first night together, awkward and blessed, in the little cave behind Helm’s Deep.

Thorin recalled that summer in the Mark; and Helmwyn took the cup from him, and kissed him. Her lips tasted like mead. Thorin folded her in his arms, and the empty years melted away; and in that moment it was summer in his heart again.

She pushed the Prince’s furs from his shoulders, and removed the Dwarf’s heavy velvet tunic, and pulled off the warrior’s mail; and then she had him again, her Thorin, with his blacksmith’s arms and his sorrowful eyes and his strong, steady heart. She kissed his brow, and his eyelids; she covered his face with kisses.

But Thorin unclasped the necklace with the heavy blue stone, and kissed her tender throat. He removed her circlet, and freed her hair; and with some help, he removed her velvets and brocades, until she stood there in her plain shift, slender and grave-eyed – his Helmwyn. He clasped her to him, crushing her small breasts against his chest, and felt as giddy as a dwarfling.

He laid her down upon the bed – but then they both laughed, as the locket he wore fell out of his shirt and slapped her in the face. “You still wear it,” she said, as he opened the locket to show her the pale golden braid tightly coiled beneath a sheet of crystal.

“Aye, I wore it long,” he smiled, and closed the locket, and set it down. “But perhaps now I shall take it off,” he said, and touched the pale scar on her brow; “for I would rather press my living bride to my heart, and twine my fingers in her living hair.”

Helmwyn looked up into Thorin’s clear blue eyes, and gently stroked his beard, and pulled him down into a kiss.

***

Later, much later, Thorin lay awake, and gently traced the curve of his lady’s shoulder as she slept in his arms. She seemed so painfully fragile to him. He thought of how narrowly she had escaped yet again. He could not bear the thought of her life being snuffed out. He could not bear the thought of being forever alone.

And yet she slept so trustingly; and there was no frown upon her brow, as though she were in the safest place in all Middle-Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The penalty for dwarvicide was much higher than that for homicide. Depending on the circumstances, blood-money was usually paid in both cases; but humans were much cheaper. (2)
> 
> (2) Of course, premeditation was an aggravating circumstance. As was treason.


	52. Chapter 51

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 51**

 

Helmwyn stirred, and sleepily asked herself where she was. She was dimly aware of a strange chamber, of feather pillows, and furs. Then she remembered. _Thorin_. Smiling to herself, she rolled over, seeking his warmth under the heavy coverlet, and curled closely against him, nuzzled his shoulder, and sighed contentedly.

But something was wrong.

Thorin was bathed in a cold sweat, and she felt his heart racing beneath her hand. His body was tense, and his jaw was clenched, and his eyes moved beneath his closed lids; and she saw that he was in the throes of a terrible nightmare. He ground his teeth, and his breathing was ragged, and his limbs shook with tremors, as though he were fighting off foes in his sleeping mind. He muttered words in Khuzdul that Helmwyn did not understand; and she thought about waking him, so distressed did he seem. But then Thorin cried out, and woke with a start, and opened his eyes, panting.

He saw with relief that he was in his own chamber, and that his bride was beside him, and that it had only been a ghastly dream; but the impression of it had been so vivid that the fear was still upon him, and it took several minutes to abate. Helmwyn gently smoothed the hair away from his clammy brow; and he sought refuge in her arms, and waited for his racing heart to slow.

“I dreamt of the dragon,” he said at last. “This… sometimes happens.”

“Will you tell me?” she said. She had heard that the telling of bad dreams took away some of their power; though she doubted whether the fear of this particular dream could ever be truly dispelled.

And so Thorin told her.

He told her of silken pennants of the house of Durin, streaming wildly in the hot, dry wind as the dragon beat the air with his vast leathery wings. He told her of the beast’s approach, spewing gouts of flame onto the stricken sentinels on the battlements. He told her of the heavy bronze doors melting under the worm’s fiery breath. He told her of the creature crashing through the great stone gate as though it were no more solid than a mud-hut. He told her of the beast’s scaly tail flailing like a whip, dashing scores of soldiers against the rocky walls. He told her of the acrid smoke, and the smell of burning flesh, and the oily, chemical stench of the dragon himself. He told her that no walls of stone were safe. Helmwyn was chilled to hear what horrors he had seen, and survived.

He did _not_ tell her that in his dream, the dragon had come to Ered Luin, and that she had been among those consumed by the flames.

Instead he pulled her close, and kissed her; and they made love, clutching at each other to keep the past at bay, to keep fear at bay. _This is here and now_ , Thorin told himself, with his lips on Helmwyn’s throat, as he felt her fingers digging into his back. _This is here and now._

Perhaps Thorin’s senses were still alert from the danger in his dream; but he felt more acutely alive than he had in a long time. And indeed so absorbing was the here and now that his fears were pushed back into the dark corner of his mind whence they had come; and they stayed there, and did not trouble him again that night.

***

How they had ached for each other.

Now that they had overcome that initial awkwardness, now that they had reacquainted themselves with each other’s body, a desperate hunger was upon them, and they could not bear to be further apart than fully wrapped up in each other.

One thing that surprised Thorin a little, though in truth he found it very alluring, was that his lady no longer restrained her moans – as perforce they had had to do, when they had snatched a few moments of intimacy in the Mark. Perhaps she thought none could hear, on account of the thick stone walls; or perhaps she cared not if anyone heard, since after all what they were doing was now perfectly legitimate.

Thorin wondered whether anyone could hear them through the various chimneys and ventilation shafts. At the very least, the servants were bound to listen at the door. _Let them hear_ , he thought darkly. The sooner word got around that the marriage was consummated, and very happily so, the sooner his people would have to acknowledge the bond as indissoluble, and accept his lady – if only because, according to the law, he could now wed none other.

***

The sounds _did_ carry through the chimneys and ventilation shafts. Dís heard what passed in her brother’s chamber, distorted though it was by the echo; and she spent a bitter and wakeful night, weeping tears of disgust and powerless rage.

***

They touched brows, then fell back onto the furs, panting and spent; and they gazed at each other as their heartbeat slowed, and the sharp pleasure faded, and gave way to a deep, blissful peace. They lay closely entwined, and held each other long, stroking each other’s hair.

They were together at last, though it had long been no more than a distant hope; they were together at last, alone and undisturbed, in a chamber of their own. Whatever else they were, whatever else the world demanded of them, here and now they were lovers, they were husband and wife; and they felt safe in each other’s arms, and whole.

***

A bell rang somewhere under the mountain. At first Helmwyn thought it was part of her dream; but the insistent sound dragged her to wakefulness at last. “Mmmh?” she moaned drowsily into Thorin’s hair. “’re we under attack?”

Thorin grinned. “Nay, my love. This is a chime to announce the dawn!”

Helmwyn gave an inarticulate groan, and wrapped herself more closely around Thorin. _Dawn_. Trust the Dwarves to invent some infernal noisy device to signal the dawn, instead of just having cockerels. Or windows. Like normal people.

“Come, my love, let us rise!” said Thorin brightly, and disentangled himself form her.

“Why?” she grumbled; “are we going to be overrun by servants?”

“Not quite yet. But there is something I want to show you!”

Helmwyn, who had been looking forward to a leisurely moment of tenderness with her new husband - once she were fully awake - wondered whether he were always so boisterous in the mornings. She tried to hide among the pillows, but he leaned over her and head-butted her gently. “Rise, my love, and come with me,” he said. “I would show you the chamber I have had readied for you.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “But my lord… am I not to share your chamber?”

Thorin laughed. “Aye, I should be glad of that!” he said; “but I think this chamber will please you.” She tried to protest. “Wait till you have seen it!”

Helmwyn rose reluctantly, and threw on a robe; and Thorin led her to a door. He clasped her hand, and opened the door; and Helmwyn all but gasped in amazement.

The room was airy and elegantly furnished; but that was not what had caused her astonishment. Great bay windows had been cut into the side of the mountain; and they were glazed with glass of many colours, and the morning sun now flooded the chamber with light. “I thought you might miss the daylight,” Thorin said. And he led her through another door, out onto a stepped terrace that looked south. There they stood together in the cool morning air, under the rising sun; and from that high place Helmwyn beheld the wide spaces that surrounded her new home.

Thorin pointed westward, and told her that the Sea lay there beyond the rolling heights of the Blue Mountains, that appeared blue indeed as their fir-clad tops receded into the distance. He pointed eastward, towards wooded foothills and green valleys, still wreathed in mist, and told her that that way lay the fertile plains of Eriador, where there were the homesteads of Men and Halflings. He pointed in a southerly direction where, beyond the mountains, lost to sight beyond the wide featureless plains of Dunland, in the distant south-east, lay the Mark.

Helmwyn was speechless; and Thorin looked upon her face, and saw that she was deeply moved. “My lord, my dear lord -,” she said at last, and her voice was choked, torn as she was between laughter and tears. “Not only have you made fair chambers beneath the mountain; you have given me the sun and the sky and the rolling green lands -”

She broke off, and threw her arms about his neck. “ _Mín deóre, módleófne freáwine_ ,” she whispered into his hair. Thorin had nearly said something about this being but a poor substitute for the view from Meduseld; but seeing her so overcome with love and gratitude, he bit his tongue, and held her. “I take it you like it, then?” he said.

They tarried on the terrace for a while longer, gazing out on that fair morn; then they went back inside, hand in hand, and made themselves ready to face the world.

***

Whatever ceremony had been laid on for the wedding was over now, and the halls under the Blue Mountains were once again filled with scaffoldings and workmen and the sound of chiselling; for the Dwarves were practical folk. The royal party from the Mark did not seem to mind overmuch, not being especially formal.

Incredibly enough, Thráin and Brytta appeared to find each other’s company extremely congenial; and they spent long hours swapping tales of war and Orc-slaughter. To be sure, Thráin sometimes seemed a little vague about who King Brytta was – “Oh, you have a daughter too?” he once told him; “My son was smitten with a human girl once, you know; not unlike your daughter, she was” – which confused King Brytta at first, until he learned to take that sort of thing in his stride.

When the newlyweds appeared, they were greeted by various degrees of leering; and Thorin wore his stoniest countenance to put an end to that. Their manner was demure, and they avoided any demonstrative show of affection; but those who knew them marked the looks that passed between them, and the way their fingertips brushed and linked. King Brytta especially marked that.

“You look happy, child,” he told his daughter.

“I am, father. Very much so,” she answered.

“I am glad of it,” said the King. “Yesterday, you were as tense as a bow-string. I almost believed you were having second thoughts!”

Helmwyn was tempted for a moment to tell her father of the plot against her, but thought better of it. Instead she said: “Father, do you remember what you once told me, that you feared I would sicken and fade under these stone vaults?”

“Aye, I do, child; and to tell the truth, I fear it still, handsome though these halls may be.”

But Helmwyn beamed at him, and told him of the light-filled chamber and the terrace on the mountainside. King Brytta had to admit that it was a handsome gesture, and a loving one; and the Dwarf Prince went up several notches in his esteem. (1)

Weddings were all very well and good, but there was day-to-day business to be taken care of; and so Thorin decided to go about it, which would serve as a tour of the settlement for his guests from the Mark. There was little more to show them as far as grand dwarven architecture went; but he took them around the forges and the foundries, the workshops and the warehouses, the glassworks and the mines (well, the entrance of one mineshaft, at least – there was work to do, and they could not have visitors loose in the mineshafts, bent double; that sort of thing led to accidents).

Helmwyn and King Brytta and his close guard observed Thorin in his role as a prince, a merchant, and a craftsman. He smiled little; but then again, Dwarves were unsmiling people, by and large. But those who knew him also knew that his manner was not stern, but business-like; and they saw satisfaction and approval in his face, and even, at times, a spark in his eye: the love of work well done.

The settlement in the Blue Mountains was a poor thing indeed, to those who remembered Erebor. But something dawned on Thorin that he may not have realised before: he took pride in it. He took pride in his people. He remembered how much more miserable the place had been only a few years before; he saw how hard his people had worked, and how far they had come, and he thought that he had no cause to blush. Not before the folk of the Mark, certainly: he knew how they lived and laboured and fought; and though he had come to love that people, he also knew that they were only a few generations away from being a nomadic tribe, and that crucible steel was so incomprehensible to them as to seem magical.

But Thorin was not only showing the settlement to his bride, and the King her father, and their guards; he was also showing _them_ to his people. Or rather, he was showing them off. He hoped that they displayed enough wealth, and strength, and nobility, and benevolence, to impress those who were sceptical, and cow those who were hostile.

But whatever his doubts concerning his people’s opinion of his bride, Thorin knew that if she became as involved in the running of things as she had been in the Mark, she would make him proud.

***

Dwalin sidled up to Thorin whilst the royal guests were given a demonstration of the art of glassblowing.

“What news?” asked Thorin under his breath.

“We searched the assassins’ dwelling,” Dwalin whispered back; “and guess what we found.” He discreetly showed Thorin a small suede pouch, of the kind that was used to hold jewels. It contained gems and coins – not much, to be sure, but more than an honest miner could have hoped to save. The purse was tied by a cord adorned with beads; and these bore a sigil.

Thorin examined the markings. “What a careless, vain fool,” he said distantly. “I shall see to that anon. Thank you, my friend.” He clasped Dwalin’s arm, and stuffed the pouch into his pocket.

***

They left King Brytta with Snorri the engineer, who was currently working on a network of pipes to tap into the hot springs and bring the steaming water into the halls. The system was fascinatingly complex, and they guessed Snorri could talk about it for quite some time. As they left, the King’s polite smile already looked rather forced.

Dwalin led Thorin and Helmwyn down to the cellars once again; but now they had their culprit. As they went, Dwalin told them that the assassins had been identified. “Two brothers; name of Árni and Bjárni. Both miners. The supervisor of shaft 8 recognized them. Both unmarried. Lived together down the valley. We found a cache of gems and coins at their place, and that purse I showed you.” And the sigils on the purse had pointed straight to the Dwarf who had hired the killers. “Luckily, he’s one of those we rounded up yesterday,” Dwalin said.

“Dór,” said Thorin as the guards brought the prisoner before him. Helmwyn stared. His beard had been shorn; and seeing a shaved Dwarf was a sight more disturbing than she would have imagined. He was one of those patricians with velvet clothes and an intricately braided hair; and he put on a show of outrage and offended dignity, but Thorin was having none of it. He merely looked coolly upon the prisoner for a long moment; and when Dór became sufficiently unnerved, he showed him the purse.

When Dór saw that, the bluster went out of him. “They all knew about it,” he said.

“What of my sister?” Thorin asked. “Did _she_ know?”

Dór thought a while before answering. “It would have been unseemly to burden the lady Dís with any…details. I assumed she guessed.” He paused for a moment. “Perhaps she chose not to know.”

Thorin thought upon those words, bitterly grateful for anything that could lessen his sister’s betrayal. But now he turned his attention back on the prisoner. “You say the others all knew.” Dór nodded. “But yesterday you said the miners had acted out of their own will. Now I learn that you are the one who incited them. You are the one who paid them. And that in my eyes makes you as guilty as those who swung the axe.”

Dór tried to protest. “But the others-”

“YOU WILL BE SILENT!” Thorin roared. “Whether the others conspired with you or no does not lessen your guilt!” Thorin gathered himself again, and took Helmwyn’s hand, and drew her to him. “My lady, here is one who wished you dead. Tell me, what would you have me do with him? For I believe it is meet that you should decide this.”

Helmwyn stood beside Thorin and looked into Dór’s eyes. He shot her a look of pure malevolence; and she understood that he loathed her for what she was, and that was unlikely to change. She also knew that this time, she could not meekly defer to Thorin’s judgment. Word of this would spread. She was a shieldmaiden, a daughter of the house of Éorl; she had slain Orcs in battle, and rendered justice in the name of the King. If she was to be left untroubled, and if Thorin’s rule was to be unchallenged, then she must be seen to be both stern and just. Now. And according to how Dwarves saw the world.

“What is his trade?” she asked.

“He is a jeweller,” answered Thorin, “though he, like the rest of us, has practiced other trades during our years of exile.”

Helmwyn still gazed at Dór, and all of a sudden the punishment was clear in her mind. A cold shiver ran down her spine, for in her very conscience she did not know whether this were justice, or cruelty. “You shall be cast out of King Thráin’s halls,” she spoke. “You shall wander the wild again, and make what living you may in the wilderness. But you shall not go alone. That axeman whom you hired, the one that lived…”

“…Árni,” Dwalin supplied.

“…he shall go with you. He lost his tongue out loyalty to the lady Dís; and so you shall be his tongue. But as for him, he shall be your hands.” Dór had listened to the sentence stoically; but now his head shot up. “He shall be your hands,” she went on, as Dór began to protest, “for your thumbs shall be struck off. Furthermore” – she raised her voice to be heard above Dór’s shouts – “you shall be joined together by shackles; so that Árni shall have ever by his side the author of his brother’s death, and of his own ruin.” She wondered whether they would cooperate, or whether the one would not strangle the other with their chain before the winter.

“The lady of the Mark has spoken wisely,” said Thorin. “And I command moreover that you shall be shunned by Durin’s folk, and that none shall grant you hospitality. Therefore you shall be branded with the mark of infamy, so that all shall know you to be outcasts. You shall try your luck among Men if you will, and see whether they treat you with more kindness that you showed my lady.”

Dór had been restrained by the guards; but now he struggled against them, and cried: “Just kill me outright! Kill me if you must; strip me of wealth and dignity. But do not take my livelihood from me!”

“We have spoken,” said Thorin in a very final way, and gestured for the prisoner to be taken away, still shouting. When he was gone, Thorin’s mask of grim majesty cracked, and he squeezed Helmwyn’s hand. “Forgive me, my lord, if I have spoken ill,” she said simply. “That sentence is ugly.”

Thorin nodded. “It is inventive,” he said pensively. “But it is also singularly appropriate. I believe my own sentence would have been more violent and less…exemplary.”

“But you supported me, my lord.”

He touched her chin. “Of course I did. My queen in all but name,” he said. “I would hear your counsel. Always.” He sighed. “I pray that this shall be the last time you or I shall ever have to pass such a sentence again, my lady.”

They laid their brows together; but there was something on Helmwyn’s mind. “My lord,” she asked Thorin, “what was that phrase Dór shouted at me? The one that had something to do with ‘horse’?”

Thorin hesitated. “You really wish to know?” She nodded. “It was… ‘ _siginul ishuluk kharubaz_.’ Which translates roughly as…” – he lowered his voice – “ ‘you long thin streak of horse-piss.’ I am sorry, my lady.”

Helmwyn repeated the phrase a few times. It seemed somehow familiar. Perhaps the assassin – Árni – had used it. “I shall try to remember that, my lord,” she said. “In case I hear it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Almost as high as he had been before he announced his intention to wed his daughter. No son-in-law is ever good enough, as far as a doting father is concerned.


	53. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: First section is a hunting scene with gratuitously graphic descriptions of field-dressing a stag. Skip ahead if sensitive.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 52**

 

Thorin took the King of the Mark hunting, largely for want of anything better to do; he could hardly take the poor man to visit mines every day. But King Brytta liked nothing better than a good hunt; and at least here, the game was unlikely to fling darts back at one. The woods were teeming with game; and as it was summer, it was agreed that they would hunt stag.

Now, the custom of the Rohirrim was to crash through the undergrowth with horns and horses and pack-hounds until the quarry all but died of fright. The Dwarves, on the other hand, stalked their quarry with bow and arrow, and with spears; and though it is true the Dwarves do not possess the woodcraft of Elves, or even of Halflings, still they are skilled hunters. That skill served them well during their years in the wild; though for Dwarves, as for Men, hunting was the sport of princes, and a game of war.

The hunters proceeded on foot, after the dwarven fashion, and followed the trail that their bloodhounds had picked up, intent and silent. For a while the hunt was fruitless, for the game perceived the Men with their clumsy footfall, and fled. But at last they espied a splendid hart through the trees; and King Brytta gestured to his men to hold back, not least because he was weary of prowling through the forest on foot, like a Wose. And so the Dwarves fanned out, bent low, and advanced cautiously, approaching the beast on three sides; and Thorin slowly nocked an arrow, and took aim. The stag browsed unsuspecting in the undergrowth; and when it raised its head at last, and twitched its ears, Thorin loosed. The arrow struck true, and the stag went down.

The hunters converged on where the stag lay, still breathing, the stout dwarven shaft protruding from its side. All offered their congratulations to Thorin for his fine aim, but he acknowledged the compliments with a grimace; for the image of his brother Frerin flashed before his mind’s eye, as it always did in such circumstances. _Frerin_. They had hunted much together, during the days of their youth; but Frerin had always been the better marksman. Thorin went to the stricken stag, seized it by its magnificent antlers, and broke its neck.

“You wield a stout bow, Thorin Thráinsson!” exclaimed King Brytta appreciatively; “it looks as though it takes great strength to pull that!” Thorin handed his bow to the King with a faint smile, and watched as the Rohirrim took turns trying to pull it. They themselves had longbows, inasmuch as they had bows at all; but these were ill suited to hunting, and could not match the power of dwarven bows at short range. “But come, my lord,” the King went on; “will you show us the dwarven way of unmaking a stag? For I am curious to see how that art is practiced among Durin’s folk.”

 _Art_? In truth, Thorin doubted whether his slapdash butchering of a carcass deserved such a name. “I believe that in this regard, we have more to learn from the folk of the Mark than the folk of the Mark have to learn from us!” he said. “Nay, my lord King; since I already deprived you of the kill, I shall leave you the honour, if you so wish.”

Thorin was unsure whether this was, in fact, an honour; but the King seemed delighted, and accepted graciously. He called to his daughter: “Come, my child, let us dress this handsome fellow, you and I! It has been too long since we hunted together.”

Helmwyn stepped forward with a wry grin. “Aye, father, it has been too long! Gladly will I butcher the kill with you!” said she; though in truth she suspected that her father was more than glad to have her look after the fiddly bits. He had never been very good with the fiddly bits, and his fingers were becoming clumsy with age. But she did not mind; in fact, she rather enjoyed it, and it _had_ been too long. And so she stepped towards the carcass, drew her knife, and set to work.

She made an incision at the base of the beast’s throat, to allow it to bleed out; then she busied herself at the stag’s rear end. The Dwarves looked on with horrified fascination. Dwalin paled as he saw her cut off the beast’s pizzle. “Sweet Mahal,” he whispered. “You said it,” Thorin agreed. Helmwyn slit open the beast’s throat, pulled out various tubes, tied knots in them, then proceeded to cut open the stag’s belly. The insides spilled out almost of their own accord, with only the gentlest pull.

Thorin swallowed nervously. His throat suddenly felt very dry. For some reason, the sight of his lady in her riding-leathers, crouching beside a dead stag and up to her elbows in entrails, was irresistibly seductive. He watched as she rummaged around inside the beast’s abdominal cavity, yanking out various organs, and examining them for parasites. “I think I just fell in love all over again,” he told a stunned Dwalin, who nodded in sympathy. (1)

The stag was a large one, and thus it was decided that they would skin and dress the carcass there and then; for there would be much less weight to carry back. “There!” called Helmwyn to her father. “He is all yours!” And as King Brytta began to pull the skin off the stag’s hindquarters, Helmwyn went and parted the head from the body, and brought it to Thorin. “And this is yours, my lord!” she said with a smile, as Thorin awkwardly took from her the heavy head with its great antlers. “The brain is for the hounds,” she whispered into his ear, then went back to help her father, grinning. Thorin stared at the head, with its round eyes and its lolling tongue. He could see that this was going to be problematic.

The hide peeled off easily, and soon the King and his daughter were separating the shoulder joints and cutting out the loins, one side and then the other; and they laid the meat on the skin to keep it clean. They worked well together, and they worked in gladness; and indeed hunting with her father was among Helmwyn’s most treasured girlhood memories, and she was glad that they could do this again – one last time. (2)

It was plain that the Rohirrim knew what they were doing, cutting off the haunches, loosening the great muscles with their fingers, parting the meat from the bone with precise, practised cuts. Thorin and Dwalin had tried to work out the best method for dealing with the head, and given up. “I am envious of your skill with a knife, my lady,” Thorin conceded gallantly.

Helmwyn laughed. “Well, my lord, it is the only thing to do with food that I am remotely good at! But come, claim your cut! The steaks are yours – unless you would prefer the loin?”

At last the cuts of meat were neatly laid out on the skin, together with the heart, liver and kidneys; all the rest was given to the hounds as a well-earned reward. The hunters sat together in fellowship, and shared a light meal. The forest air was cool and fragrant, and warm shafts of sunlight dappled the forest floor. The red hounds, having had their treat, fawned on the King, who delighted in rolling around on the ground with them, scratching their wrinkly jowls. Helmwyn looked on her father, and smiled. And she looked on Thorin, and Dwalin, and on the hunters of both kindreds, all brought together; and she treasured that happy moment.

“My lord,” Amleth said to Thorin, “there is something I would ask you. What became of that foul tempered black stallion you brought back from the Mark? I have looked in the stables for that beast, but I have not seen him anywhere.”

“Oh? You mean Endwerc?” said Thorin innocently, and the Rohirrim laughed merrily at the name.

“Aye, the very one!” said Amleth. “Did you make stew of him after all?”

Thorin smiled, and told them how he had sold the bloody-minded beast to an Elf for twice its worth. “Do you know, whenever I visit the Havens, I ask myself how the vicious brute and his new owner are getting on. Sadly, I have not seen either of them since.”

“Perhaps the horse threw the Elf and bolted!” called a Rider.

“Perhaps the Elf stewed him!” called another.

“I wonder,” mused Thorin. “Elves profess to be respectful of living creatures; but here even their fondness for beasts may have been stretched to breaking point!”

There was much laughter; and Helmwyn beamed to see Thorin so easy-going around her people. She would have kissed him, were it not that they were not alone; instead she leaned closer to him, and asked: “Will you take me to see these Havens, my lord? For is that not the seaport whence dwarven goods are shipped even as far as Gondor?”

Thorin gave her a long look; and it seemed to her that a cloud passed over his brow. “Aye, my lady,” he said at last, “I shall take you to see the Elves, if you wish it.” He thought about it for a while, then added: “I confess, I do not like the place; and I only go when I must. But perhaps you will have more patience with the Elves that I have.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I shall break someone’s nose,” she teased him.

“That would not be so good for trade,” he grinned.

They spoke no more of it. But Helmwyn watched Thorin, as he talked amicably with the other hunters, Dwarves and Men both; and she wondered what exactly it was that he had against Elves.

***

“Ouch,” Thorin winced, slowly recovering his wits.

Helmwyn regretfully stopped nibbling on his earlobe. “We must go hunting again, my love,” she panted into his ear.

“Aye, that we must,” he agreed. The trek back had been excruciating; and they had all but torn the clothes off each other when they had reached their chambers at last.

Thorin lingered in his wife’s embrace; and they shared a long, luxurious kiss. Thorin was most gratified to hear her moan softly, and to feel the press of her hips against his.

“Let me look at you,” he said all of a sudden; and he sat up to gaze at her, reclining on the bed of furs, spent and languorous, her skin pale gold in the firelight. Thorin held her waist, and ran his hand down over the curve of her hip; and the thought that his seed would one day quicken inside her, and her belly swell with new life, was one he found extremely alluring. He saw that she too was gazing up at him, with the look of love in her eyes.

Helmwyn’s fingertips gently trailed over his throat and chest, still beaded with sweat. “Husband,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke his beard. They gazed at each other a moment longer; then Thorin lay down beside his bride again, and she rolled over into his welcoming arms.

***

In those days they learned the sweetness of sharing a bed; and that was not solely to do with lovemaking. They learned what it was to fall asleep in each other’s arms, skin against skin and heart to heart; for that too was something they had never truly been able to do in the Mark. Thorin felt soothed by his lady’s nakedness against his own, by her warmth, and touch, and tender little gestures. She would drowsily stroke his feet with hers, as she drifted off to sleep; and he delighted in that.

If they woke up during the night, and found they had moved apart, they would stir, and find each other, and snuggle close, and fall asleep again. Or sometimes Helmwyn would wake to find Thorin lying heavy on her breast; and she could not have budged him if she tried. But she was glad at least that he was not tormented by bad dreams, and so she let him be; and she stroked his back, letting her arm go numb, and listened to his gentle snoring.

Thorin had commissioned a great oaken bed; and he had ordered it to be made long enough for Helmwyn. But he must have misjudged the proportions somehow; for he found that she invariably ended up lying diagonally across the bed, to be able to stretch her limbs. But Thorin smiled at this, too; and he curled against his wife, purring happily like a large black cat. (3)

***

If their nights were spent in bliss, their days were busy. Thorin often took his wife around the settlement, and involved her in craft and trade, hoping that she would soon know enough to counsel and support and second him.

And so Helmwyn set about learning all there was to learn about the dwarven settlement in the Blue Mountains; and she set about it with great zeal. She wanted to visit everything, and learn everyone’s name, and took an interest in everyone’s affairs, as she had done in the Mark. And as there was so much to remember, and it would have been unseemly for the lady to go around taking notes, a dwarven lady-in-waiting-cum-secretary was found for her. (4)

Her name was Gróa, and she was kin to Thorin – a cousin several times removed, or something of the sort. Her family had been bankers in Erebor, and were now busy becoming bankers again. Her brother Gróin was beginning to do well, having made some shrewd investments; but it was whispered that his sister was the brains of the outfit. Thorin knew and trusted them, and Balin and Dwalin knew and trusted them; and that was good enough for Helmwyn.

In truth, she was a little daunted when they were first introduced, for Gróa had flaming red hair and a rather formidable look; and indeed Gróa had her doubts about this human girl from a tribe of uncouth horsemen. But halfway through a rather stilted conversation, Helmwyn happened to mention her admiration for double-entry book-keeping; and Gróa laughed heartily, and accepted the position.

***

King Brytta was loath to part from his daughter, but he also knew that he must return to the Mark; and however pleasant the hunting-parties and the rides through the woods and the merry talks by the hearth, he was becoming restless, for he was like his daughter in this, that he could not remain idle for long. Helmwyn was grieved at his departure, but she knew it could not be delayed.

The King of the Mark took his leave from his hosts, greeting Balin and Dwalin and King Thráin warmly; and last of all he clasped Thorin’s arm. “Thorin Thráinsson,” said the King. “I go now; and I leave my daughter in your care.”

“You have given me the greatest treasure in your realm, my lord King,” answered Thorin; “and I shall guard her well”

“Farewell, and may your folk grow strong again and prosper.”

“Farewell, and may the Mark once again know peace!”

Helmwyn insisted on riding with her father part of the way, clad in raiment of war; and even as they rode under the glad sun, through the verdant woods of her new home, her heart tightened with grief at the imminent parting.

They came at last to the crest of a hill, and they reined in their horses; for Helmwyn could go no further if she wished to be back before sundown. Father and daughter dismounted, and embraced; and Helmwyn was weeping freely now, and cared not that the men saw her.

“Father,” she said, and her voice was choked with tears. “I love you so much. So very much.”

“And I love you, my daughter” said King Brytta; “aye, and I shall miss you sorely; but I take comfort in knowing that you shall dwell in happiness with that husband of yours.”

“I fear I have been a bad daughter to you,” Helmwyn sobbed. “I have been naught but impatient and ill-humoured over the years; and I pray that you can forgive me.”

“Hush now,” said the King, and smiled through his tears. “You are fearless and high-hearted, and you make me proud. And remember: I care not what it says on their piece of parchment. You shall always be my darling girl.”

Helmwyn took her father’s hand and squeezed it. “Dearest Father. Greet the Mark for me.” She could say no more.

King Brytta kissed his daughter’s brow for the last time. “Farewell, thou brave, wonderful child! Thou pride of my heart, fare thee well!” he said; and he mounted his tall grey steed, raised his hand in salute, and spurred his horse down the hill, southward.

Helmwyn watched as the glint of the sun on spear and helm passed among the trees; and the horns of the King’s _eóred_ sounded one last time in the valley below, and their call echoed off the mountains, and was lost.

***

“That was a bitter parting,” said Helmwyn upon her return. “Now am I truly sundered from my kin, and from my land, and from all that I once held dear.”

Thorin helped her out of her armour for the last time, and held her close; for he knew the life and the land she mourned, and understood her grief well enough. He gently drew her head down until her brow touched his. “I will not tell you: do not grieve,” he said; “but this I will say to you: our old lives are behind us, but our new life lies before us.”

“Aye,” she said with a pale smile, and head-butted him gently; “that it does.” Home was where Thorin was.

***

Helmwyn lay propped up on her elbow, and watched Thorin sleep. He was sleeping peacefully for once, and she watched as his broad chest rose and fell with his quiet breathing. She gazed long upon his serene features. He was very definitely a Dwarf; yet she marvelled at the beauty of him.

Here he was, her beloved lord, for whose sake she had given up everything she had loved, everything she had been; the one for whom she had hung up her sword, and left her home and her kin. But although these losses grieved her, she did not regret her choice. The only thing she did regret was waiting so long for this moment.

She laid a hand upon his heart. Thorin stirred, and turned his head; and his eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at her. “I did not mean to wake you,” she whispered, and planted gentle kisses on his chest. But Thorin purred, and flung his arms around her, and crushed her to him. “This is bliss,” he breathed; and Helmwyn felt his voice rumble deep inside his chest. “Waking up beside you; it is bliss.”

Helmwyn buried her face in Thorin’s chest hair; and she had to agree. It _was_ bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The art of dressing a stag is an aristocratic accomplishment in medieval courtly literature. In Gottfried von Strassburg’s narrative poem Tristan, for example, the hero spends an entire chapter dressing a stag; and all the onlookers agree that it is the Hottest. Thing. Ever.
> 
> (2) That was just the sort of father/daughter bonding that made Helmwyn’s mother furious. (“You taught our daughter to do WHAT?” – “But my dear, we had such fun…”)
> 
> (3) I thought I’d let Our Protagonists be as unabashedly fluffy and cute as a pair of puppies in a basket, because they’ve rather earned it. But besides being cute, all of this is also vitally important. If you discover too late that your partner has a tendency to elbow you in the soft bits, crush your vulnerables, or flail around with their arms and hit you while they are asleep, it can take its toll on even the most harmonious relationship. To say nothing of the snoring.
> 
> (4) Her human lady-in-waiting, Gerhild, Amleth’s wife, had no letters, of course.
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: So, boys and girls! For a long while, we had Thorin as the stranger in a strange land; now it’s Helmwyn’s turn to be the odd one out. How is she going to adjust to being entirely surrounded by Dwarves? Stay tuned!


	54. Chapter 53

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 53**

 

It would be pleasant to report that Helmwyn’s presence brightened the settlement in the Blue Mountains, and that she was loved by all; but the truth is somewhat different.

The underground chambers weighed on her mood, and she was always cold. There was a perpetual chill under the mountains; and it crept into her bones, and could not be dispelled. She missed being out of doors, and shivered in the stone halls, though Thorin clad her in furs. She spent much time in her bright chambers with the windows on the mountainside, learning Khuzdul and poring over accounts, and taking in as much daylight as she could; and she thanked her stars daily for Thorin’s loving foresight. But neither did she wish to hide herself away in her bower altogether; and she made a point of walking through the halls and the settlement every day, and talking to Dwarves, and concerning herself with their day-to-day business.

She explored the halls, stooping to avoid bumping her head on the ceiling of the corridors; and she cursed, and asked herself why the Dwarves built their halls so lofty and their galleries so low. But the great halls had been for show, while much of the settlement was still work in progress. She had resented Thorin for making her wait; but now she began to realise what a huge undertaking these halls had been. The Dwarves were forever carving out new chambers and new galleries, honeycombing the mountain to such an extent that she wondered how the whole thing did not collapse. And she saw how most of them lived, in windowless stone chambers with little comfort, that put her in mind of cells, or of tombs. The Dwarves did not actually seem to mind, and called them ‘cosy’, and worked contentedly, slowly excavating and adding new chambers as they went. But Helmwyn now understood why Thorin had wanted to spare her this. For one used to the wide plains of the Mark, it would have felt like being buried alive.

Even at this early stage, the halls felt like a maze; new galleries were ever being dug, and staircases appeared from one week to the next. Helmwyn never went anywhere without an entourage of guards of both races, and secretaries, and ladies-in-waiting; that way she was sure not to get lost. But she reflected sourly that even when she knew these halls like the back of her hand, she would still need an escort. She perceived the need for it; but she chafed at it, feeling almost as unfree as Dís.

For if the halls were cold and complex, the same was true of the Dwarves.

No-one was openly discourteous to her, yet she could sometimes sense mistrust, or even outright hostility. No-one dared grumble though, not even in Khuzdul, since Gróa was now by her side. She surrounded herself with Dwarves who loved Thorin, and were willing to help her for his sake; and her greatest help in those days was Balin, who treated her with the kindness of a shrewd and benevolent uncle.

In truth, she was far from being wholly alone. She had Amleth & Gerhild, her guards and her women; she had Balin and Dwalin, and most importantly she had Thorin. His love was light and warmth, and her cares vanished when she was in his arms. But every day she felt a little more defensive, and isolated, and unwelcome. She felt insecure, and that was a novel feeling for Helmwyn; and it began to eat away at her like a canker. She feared she might actually be making Thorin’s life more difficult, and undermining his rule.

The elders shook their heads in dismay, and thought that this match was an abomination, and that it could only happen because the King was mad, the Heir was young and reckless, and the law scrolls had been lost. They muttered about the decadence of the line of Durin, and gave up hope of ever returning to Khazad-Dûm, or to the Mountain. But in truth, though the elders and some of the highborn dwarves were hostile, most of the common folk did not seem to care. Thorin had given them a home, and peace, and the promise of prosperity; and they cared little about the purity of the bloodline.

Thráin was difficult, though. Helmwyn really wanted to love the old warrior. But though he had been cheerful enough during the wedding celebrations (if somewhat bewildered), she now saw the dark moods that took him; and she felt sorrow on account of Thorin.

All were relieved if Thráin merely sat brooding like a sullen thundercloud. But he was prone to outbursts, and spoke his mind all too plainly. He had become upset at attempts to chaperone Dís too closely. And since she was the only one who could soothe Thráin when he had a tantrum, and since her presence kept him happy, the measures to isolate her were not as strict as they would otherwise have been. So it was not impossible that she were still speaking ill of Thorin’s bride into the King’s ear; but perhaps Thráin had no need of any such prompting.

Mealtimes were especially trying. “Well, son?” he greeted Thorin one morning; “I hear you are enjoying that skinny piece of human arse? Everybody else heard it, too. So tell us! Was it worth it, selling out the line of Durin for _that_?”

Balin hid his face in his hands. Helmwyn stared at her oatmeal, willing her features into steely composure. Thorin did not credit his father with a reply, but a vein bulged angrily on his temple; and Helmwyn saw that he all but crushed the silver goblet he was holding.

Dís said nothing either, but she sat next to her father, and held her head as proudly as a queen.

***

Thorin called Gróa into his study, and explained to her exactly what her service to the lady Helmwyn would entail.

“…I fear I must ask you to carry a weapon at all times,” he said. “You must be ever on your guard.”

Gróa was a tough, capable dwarrowdam with a loud voice and arms like hams. These she now crossed under her ample bosom, and gave her Prince a sceptical look. “Thorin…don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?”

“Come, my cousin. You know well enough that there are some, among our people, who are less than thrilled that I should have chosen to wed a daughter of Men.”

“Doubtless there are some”, answered Gróa, who had thought it…an eccentric choice, certainly. “But be that as it may; surely you do not seriously expect that anyone should try to harm her?”

Thorin looked pointedly at Gróa.

“They did?”

He told her of the attempt to assassinate his bride. He did not mention that Dís had been involved, for he did not want that to become widely known; in any case, Gróa had already noticed that there was little love between the two women, for that much was plain. Perhaps she would guess eventually. And people talked. It was bound to be noticed that the lady Dís was under constant guard. “So,” Thorin said, “should you hear rumours…for instance, about a certain Dwarf whose hands were mutilated and who was sent into exile… I wanted you to know the truth.”

Gróa took it all in very earnestly. “And you believe that there might be another attempt?”

Thorin sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “In truth, I do not know. It seems we caught the conspirators. But there may be others. They were unable to prevent the wedding; but should my lady conceive- I mean, _when_ she conceives… there might be some who do not wish to see the Heir of Durin born of a human mother.”

Gróa looked long and hard at Thorin. “Listen, kinsman. You and I both know that this marriage of yours was a breach of custom – yes, you knew it. You knew it was bound to upset people. BUT” – she raised a hand to silence Thorin’s protests – “an assassination – sweet Mahal. When it comes to marriage, every Dwarf should be free to make his or her own choices – even a Prince.” It was plain from the way Gróa spoke that she felt strongly about this matter. Thorin gave her a searching look, and wondered why she had never married. Whatever her reason, be it loss or disappointment or deliberate choice, she kept it to herself.

“I am aware that I am asking you put yourself in harm’s way, cousin,” he said.

“I can look after myself,” she answered. That she certainly could. To have survived during the years of exile, she had to. “But so can that skinny bride of yours, from what I hear. With all those soldiers always trailing us, I daresay we’ll manage.”

“Thank you, cousin,” said Thorin, relieved. “And should you hear anything…”

“You shall know of it,” Gróa said.

***

Peace and prosperity had led to a sudden surge of births among the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains; and Thorin was pleased that his people were increasing once more. In fact, Thorin would have been content in his rule, were it not for the constant nagging of the elders. Months had passed, and the Prince’s ridiculous human bride had still not conceived (not for want of trying, as rumour would have it); and the elders did not tire from pointing this out, as they looked for every opportunity to have the marriage annulled – even if it meant twisting the law a little. After all, they considered the law had already been bent; they might as well go all the way.

Thorin regularly lost his patience with them. “And why on earth should I heed your counsel?” he snapped at them. “Humans have been known to mate with Elves – though I cannot for the life of me imagine why they should want to do such a thing – and if such an unnatural pairing can produce offspring, I am quite confident that the lady Helmwyn and I shall manage too, thank you very much.” He only just refrained from calling them names, and wished they would not stick their grubby noses into his marriage-bed; but the private business of the Heir of Durin was not his alone, however much he might wish it.

***

After the great hall, one of the first large-scale building projects that the Dwarves were bent on completing was the bath-house. Few would guess it; but the Dwarves enjoyed a sophisticated bathing culture; and they liked nothing better than to take steam baths, or to luxuriate in warm water. Not only did it cleanse the pores and unwind the muscles; it was also an important form of socialisation. They used these occasions to talk, and to do business; and in the baths, all were equal, for Dwarves of all stations visited them.

The system of pipes had been devised by Snorri the engineer; and it was his pride and joy. The steaming water was brought from hot springs further away; and no sooner were the baths finished than he began to think of ways this water could be used for heating. The water was sulphurous, and smelled faintly of foul eggs; but Dwarves did not mind that sort of thing. On the contrary, they were convinced that the minerals in the water had all manner of curative properties: they said it soothed the skin, eased the joints, strengthened the bones, and fortified the liver.

And perhaps it really had beneficial effects on the health of Dwarves, thought Helmwyn, wrinkling her nose at the smell. After all, legend had it that they had been fashioned of stone by Aulë the maker – or Mahal, as she now began to think of him.

Times were set aside for men and for women to use the baths; and Gróa had insisted that Helmwyn, Gerhild, and the few other women of the Mark accompany her. When they had stripped, and first entered the bathing-hall, the women were stunned; for these baths were fairer than most dwellings of Men.

The Dwarves had adorned their bath-house as though it were a shrine. Through the swathes of steam that drifted about the room, the women could see that the walls and the pillars and the domed ceiling glittered with small tiles of glass, glinting blue and gold in the dim lamplight. They sat in a tessellated alcove, talking quietly, while the hot, humid air slowly brought them to a sweat.

It should have been ghastly. I had sounded ghastly. It had sounded like a muggy day in august, when man and beast languished, waiting for a thunderstorm. But it was wonderful. Helmwyn felt her limbs grow heavy, and the tension in her shoulders release, and all the accumulated cares and vexations melt away.

When they felt they had perspired enough, and were beginning to feel a little light-headed, they padded over to the pool; but as Helmwyn was about to step into the water, she saw that a group of Dwarf women were already there; and among them was Dís. They had not seen each other, what with the steam and the gloom.

Helmwyn felt their eyes on her. Of all of the women, she was the thinnest, and the one with the least bosom. In truth, Helmwyn had never wanted to have full breasts – they only got in the way. She had always been content with her body. It had always done what she demanded of it; or perhaps she had learned to make the best of what she had. She was slender, and not very tall by the reckoning of her people; but years of training had made her lithe and fast and strong – though these past years of forced idleness had given her a softer, more womanly air.

But these Dwarf women were all breasts and hips and thighs. And by Mahal, did they flaunt it. They glanced at Helmwyn’s body, and whispered to each other, too quietly for Gróa to hear; and they giggled.

Helmwyn assumed that the Dwarf-ladies who were with Dís were chaperones appointed by Dwalin; but perhaps they were friends of hers who used the baths to talk to her away from prying ears. But no, she reflected, they need not have been. They could be anyone. _So that_ , they must have been thinking, _is what Prince Thorin chose over us. That skinny piece of human arse_. She would not have been surprised if every single Dwarf woman of marriageable age loathed her.

Helmwyn drew herself up proudly, and stepped slowly down into the pool, followed by her women. They congregated in a corner opposite the group of Dwarves, and did their best to ignore them. The dwarven ladies were chatting more loudly now, and in the common tongue; and they made sure that Helmwyn heard every word they said under the echoing dome.

“My husband _loves_ my breasts,” said one. “He can’t get enough of them. ‘Give me ripe apples,’ he always says, ‘not sour little gooseberries!’”

“ _My_ betrothed loves my hips,” said another. “Beautiful, broad, childbearing hips, he calls them. He says he wants at least three children; but I’ve always wanted five.”

“What do you think would be a good name for a little boy?” said yet another.

They went on like this, laughing, swapping bedroom tales and infant names, while Helmwyn flushed crimson; though that might have been from the heat. Dís spoke little, but she laughed at her companions’ tales; and her eyes were ever on Helmwyn. The women of the Mark stood around nervously, and Helmwyn thought of the long pins that held up her braided hair. She would have used them in case of an attack; and she was seriously considering using them now.

Gróa decided it was time to act; and she elbowed Gerhild in the ribs. “You’re married,” she hissed between her teeth; “come up with something!”

“Oh,” said a flustered Gerhild. “Er. I don’t know about you girls,” she said in a loud clear voice, “but this mountain air is making me frisky. Poor Amleth is utterly exhausted. After the fifth time, he is begging for mercy.”

The penny dropped for the others; and another woman, Gisela, went on: “Yes, my husband too is exhausted,” she claimed, although she was unmarried. “He says I am insatiable; but I think five times a night is the bare minimum.”

“You are so lucky, Helmwyn,” said a third, Brynja, catching on. “Is it true, what they say about the stamina of Dwarf men?”

Helmwyn had no desire to descend to that level; but she was also grateful for her women’s support. “You would not believe it if I told you;” she grumbled through clenched teeth. But then she added: “But it isn’t just the stamina, you know. It’s the skill.”

“And I guess it’s a first-rate tool you have there, too,” Gróa supplied; and the women of the Mark erupted into shrieks of laughter.

Helmwyn shot Dís a glance, and saw that she and the other Dwarf women looked rather sour. _Right_ , she thought. _You wanted war; you shall have war_. Helmwyn launched into a tale of her nightly pleasures, keeping it allusive, yet scabrous enough that her companions regularly punctuated her account with appreciative gasps and squeals. “It is said that the skill of Dwarves lies rather in their hands than in their tongues,” she said, her face impassive; “but that is not true of Thorin, son of Thráin. (1) In fact, I would be hard pressed to decide wherein his greater skill lies.”

Helmwyn warmed to her tale, until at last the Dwarf ladies left the pool with a few murderous glances. When they had gone, Helmwyn sagged. “This will come back to haunt me, won’t it,” she said darkly.

“Better it is said that all is well in the princely bed than the opposite,” said Gróa.

 ***

“Thank you, my friends,” said Helmwyn afterwards, when they were drying themselves with linen towels. “And thank you, Gróa. It must not be easy for you, helping the flat-chested human who stole away your handsome Prince. I suppose any other Dwarf woman would just as soon push me down the stairs.”

“Well,” said Gróa, “most of the young girls coveted Thorin because he was the Prince; but beyond that…honestly, I would not worry overmuch about the grown women.”

“Why is that?”

“Listen, my lady. Thorin is a fine upstanding lad, very serious, very grown-up for his age, but…well…he’s still a bit green. What is he, about seventy? That is half my age!”

Helmwyn blinked. She kept forgetting how young Thorin was, for a Dwarf.

“Besides,” Gróa went on, “he only has a short one.”

Helmwyn nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean his beard, of course. Not much of a beard, poor lad; but he has his reasons for that. You’ll have to ask him; that’s not for me to say. But let me tell you, that is a big turn-off for any red-blooded Dwarf lass. Now, my brother on the other hand – do you know him? – he’s a fine figure of a Dwarf. Not the sharpest axe in the rack, but a luxuriant beard. It’s not easy, meeting someone on the road; but my brother managed. The ladies flocked to him.”

Helmwyn pictured Gróin. So that was the epitome of dwarven handsomeness. Ye gods.

“Sorry, ladies,” said Gróa to the giggling women; “he’s already taken.”

***

That evening in their chamber, Thorin amused himself by removing the pins from his wife’s hair, and uncoiling her braids, and undoing them slowly, enjoying the feel of the thick golden strands between his fingers. Because of the steam, her hair had taken on the regular ripples of the braids; and Thorin smoothed it out, and laid it about her shoulders, and he pushed a strand aside to kiss her throat.

She turned to him, and laid her brow against his; and he perceived that whatever thoughtfulness or sadness hung over her that evening, he would need to do more to dispel it.

“Something troubles you, my lady; I can see it,” he said gently. “Will you not tell me what is the matter?” He could guess well enough what it was; for he knew she greatly missed the Mark, and had trouble finding her place in the Blue Mountains.

Helmwyn sighed, and seemed reluctant to tell him what weighed on her mind; but at last she asked him: “My lord – do you think I have changed?”

“I do not understand, my lady,” said he. To him, she was the same as ever. He did not know what she meant.

“Do you not think I have grown soft?”

Thorin considered that. “Perhaps you are softer than you were,” he said truthfully; “but perhaps it merely seems that way, since you seldom wear your riding garments anymore, or bear weapons.”

“And do you not think me less spirited that I was?”

“Aye, maybe less cheerful; but then,” he added with a fond smile, “you always were grave - and you ever smile when we are together.”

“I feel I have become brittle, and weak,” she said. “I fear that you shall be disappointed in me.”

Thorin was surprised. “How?”

“You fell in love with a shieldmaiden, my lord. But now that I no longer am what I was – I fear that you will love me less.”

“I still do not understand,” said Thorin, increasingly bewildered. “You say you have changed because you no longer fight. But I have not fought since that night in Helm’s Deep. Does that make me any less of a warrior in your eyes?”

Helmwyn smiled. “Nay, my lord, to be sure.” But she could see that Thorin was really disturbed by her questions.

“Then why should I think any less of you? Do Men believe one can change so easily?” he asked. “Do Men’s affections change so easily?”

Helmwyn stroked his beard soothingly. “Do not be alarmed, my lord. Not all Men are as fickle in their affections as my brother Waldred! Nay. In truth, my fears have much to do with being a woman. It was hard for me to give up fighting, I will not deny it. The sword gave me strength and purpose. But being here…it is another kind of fight; and it requires another kind of strength.” She doubted she made much sense. In truth, she hardly understood her own misgivings. “I would prove worthy of you, my lord,” she said simply.

Thorin stroked her hair. “I love you,” he said. “I loved you when you fought, and when you laughed, and when you wept, and when you cursed, and when you slept. You are my wife. I can say no more than that.” He looked long into her eyes. “Did you ever love me less for my ill-humour, or for my fears, or for my stubbornness?”

“Of course not, my lord!”

“Well, then.” And with that, he rested his brow against hers.

***

Later that evening, after they had made love, Thorin lay stroking his wife’s skin in a leisurely way. “You _have_ grown softer,” he teased her.

Helmwyn grinned. “That is thanks to those splendid baths of yours,” she said. “I don’t suppose we could commandeer them one day? Just you and I?”

“I shall think on that,” said Thorin sleepily.

Helmwyn let her thoughts wander for a while. “My lord?” she said at last.

“Hmm?”

“There is one thing I would ask of you: talk to your sister. She is angry, and she is hurt; and her bitterness is poisoning your house. Talk to her, lest she drive a wedge between us.”

“She will not, that I promise,” said Thorin, and kissed his wife’s temple; “but I shall talk to her, if that is what you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Galadriel was to say the same of Gimli, son of Glóin some years later.


	55. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This week, boys and girls, Helmwyn makes a stand against sexist fashions, Thorin has a heart-to-heart with his teenage sister, and the smut has more footnotes than ever before. Enjoy!

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 54**

The time had come for the lady Helmwyn to renew her wardrobe. This was partly because she felt it would be politically expedient to dress in a more dwarven manner; but partly also because the garments she had brought from the Mark were simply not warm enough. There were hearths in the mountain halls, but they did little to dispel the chill in Helmwyn’s bones. She was beginning to think that Dwarves really did not feel the cold as humans did.

Two dwarven dressmakers, apparently the best, had come to her sunlit chamber; they were called Valdur and Vardur, though Helmwyn could not remember which was which. They were brothers, presumably; though why they all had to have those stupid alliterative names was quite beyond her. One of them allegedly specialised in dressing ladies’ hair. Helmwyn would never have thought that this could be a trade in its own right; but having seen how Dwarf women wore their hair, she could now readily believe it.

The dressmakers had brought a few young dwarven ladies to show off the finest examples of their craft. They launched into florid descriptions of their creations as each model paraded her attire in front of Helmwyn, whose frown deepened with every new gown. In the end, she bade the voluble brothers be silent, and addressed the young ladies instead.

She took a closer look at a low-cut red velvet number that one of them was wearing. “Are those _stays_?” she asked. “Can you breathe at all? Oh, good. And how many petticoats are you wearing? Really. And what might these be? Oh, _hoops_. I must say, those sleeves really _are_ voluminous. Extraordinary. And what is that on your shoes? _Bells_. I see. How charming.”

She peered at another’s elaborate hairstyle. “How long does it take to…? That long, really. Oh, horsehair extensions? You don’t say. And how is it all…held together? Oh. And tallow, you say? Remarkable. Thank you, ladies. You may leave us now.”

Helmwyn smiled politely until the models had left the room; then she turned on the two unfortunate Dwarves.

“NO.”

“But my lady-”

“You want to be first? Very well.” The hairdresser bore the brunt of her wrath. “I intend to lead a full and busy life, Master; and that begins with NOT spending two hours every morning having my hair put up, and another hour in the evening taking it down again.”

“I am sure the lord Thorin would be delighted if you were to-”

“The lord Thorin knows exactly whom he has wed, Master. I think he would be glad to recognise me still when you are done with me. Besides,” she added, “I am already tall and ungainly. Would you have me tower two feet above the lord Thorin? Come now.”

“But my lady-”

“Enough! I shall wear my hair as I have always worn it: away from my face, and with as little fuss as possible. You _may_ braid it a little more elaborately on formal occasions. BUT – and I wish to make this very clear – if I hear any suggestion of tallow, I will demonstrate to you one of the advantages of a plain hairstyle: it enables one to SWING A SWORD UNHINDERED.”

The hairdresser paled and shrank; and Helmwyn rounded on the dressmaker.

“Why?” she asked, though in truth she did not care to hear their reasons. “Why must you attire your women thus? After all, your menfolk dress sensibly. Do you fear someone might try to stab your women? Is that why you make them wear those stiff bodices? If so, you would be better advised to protect their vital organs as well. And their bosoms. What is the sense in displaying their bosoms thus? Take it from me, Master: a breastplate three inches wide will achieve nothing, except to hinder their breathing. And if your women _are_ attacked, how do you expect them to run away with all those skirts? Or to defend themselves with those sleeves? Have I escaped the wretched sleeves of the Mark only to face this?”

“You are pleased to jest, my lady-”

“I am not jesting, and I am most certainly not pleased. However, since it seems I cannot dispense with _your_ services, Master, I shall make a few things plain to you too. I will NOT wear stays, NOR starched petticoats, NOR cumbersome sleeves. I WILL, however, wear my waistline where it belongs, which is on my waist. How should I be expected to draw my sword if the hilt is hidden under my armpit?”

“Do you intend always to carry a sword, my lady? Even here?”

“I want to know I would be able to, should I so wish.”

Valdur, if it was he, floundered, casting around for ideas. If one ruled out stays and petticoats and tallow, the result was bound to be… “So,” he stammered, “…you want something a little more…masculine?”

“Masculine? I want something that will keep me warm, and allow me to breathe and walk and ride and climb stairs. _And_ swing a sword if I must. If that is masculine to you, then by all means.”

The dressmaker pulled out pen and parchment, and started sketching nervously. “Let me see… something layered… a tunic base… would a fur-lined robe be acceptable?” Helmwyn nodded emphatically. Yes, she definitely wanted one of those. “What about hemlines?”

They worked out an overall look that seemed to satisfy the lady: floor-length robes, with a taper at the waist, and not so broad in the shoulder as what the menfolk wore, but otherwise very similar to male garb. The brothers were horrified, but it seemed they had no choice but to comply. They proceeded to show the lady samples of fabric and fur. Helmwyn looked on distractedly, and thought of Thorin’s ceremonial dress, which included elements of scale armour, and vambraces, and mail.

“Actually,” she said to the dressmakers, “those tunics…make them _armoured_.” The brothers looked aghast, but Helmwyn ignored them, and smiled quietly to herself. She _would_ draw the line at armoured boots, though.

***

Helmwyn had given up on trying to please everyone. If she could never make those Dwarves like her, she would at least see to it that they had a healthy respect for her.

Dwarf women flaunted their bosoms and their hips, and dressed in such a way as to show off everything they had. Helmwyn was aware that she could not compete with that; but neither did she particularly wish to. However much they disapproved of her sartorial choices, Valdur and Vardur outdid themselves. They created fitted tunics that were festooned with scale armour, or lined with mail; and they crafted bodices that felt like breastplates, and cuffs that looked like vambraces. Helmwyn was delighted. (1) She had also specifically requested that they use the same blues and blacks and silvers that Thorin liked to wear; and his crest was embroidered and emblazoned wherever space could be found. Helmwyn felt this would help get the point across.

She had always worn a blade or two about her person since her arrival in the Blue Mountains; but now she wore at least one blade openly. And whenever she left the stone halls, she wore her sword. There comes a point where one has to be oneself, she reflected; and she was going to show these folk exactly who they were dealing with.

She still went nowhere but escorted by Riders; but she whittled down her guard, as she was tired of living in fear. The lads had gone back to doing what they had done in the Mark: farming and breeding horses; for there was land aplenty around Thráin’s halls, but the Dwarves did not till land, and raised but little livestock. Some of them became merchants, for perhaps the folk who lived at the foot of Ered Luin found them more congenial to trade with than the Dwarves. Some of them took a wife from mong the local women; for tall, strong, yellow-haired men such as they were seldom seen in those parts. All in all, life was good for them; indeed, it was better than it had been in the Mark, for there were no Orcs.

Helmwyn was glad for them; for after all, if her men could become part of local society, perhaps she could, too. But she did insist that they come in in turns, and train, and patrol, and guard, much as they had done in the Mark. She did not want them growing soft. She did not want herself going soft. And so she too began to train again.

As there were no Orcs, training now had little practical purpose, besides perhaps self-defence. But she sparred with her men, and she sparred with Dwalin; and she made sure that folk saw her at it. She went out onto those training-grounds daily, however foul the weather. It was hard and painful, for she was out of practice; but the training did her good, and allowed her to vent some aggression. And when she strode back to her apartments, soaked to the skin and clad in mud-bespattered fighting-gear, she saw the look on the Dwarves’ faces, and felt a sense of grim satisfaction.

And in the evenings Thorin would gently rub her aching sinews, and he would smile to see her muscles harden little by little; and they would both reap the benefit of her training.

“I am glad to see that you are quite yourself again, my lady,” he grinned, panting.

“My grumpy old self, you mean?” she teased him.

“I love your grumpy old self,” he teased her back.

“And I love yours,” she said, and kissed him. “I doubt it shall make me more popular with your kin,” she added after a while.

“There is no pleasing some people,” said Thorin sleepily.

“They shall have to get used to me. I will not let myself be cowed.”

“That’s my shieldmaiden,” Thorin mumbled into her hair. He curled close to his wife, and fell asleep with his arm around her waist.

Her desperately thin waist, she thought fretfully. And her desperately flat, toned belly. Helmwyn lay awake for a long while, and wondered whether those three wasted years had not meant an even greater waste. After all, she was nearly thirty. She reflected, not for the first time, that after all the heartbreak and all the strife, she might in fact not be able to give Thorin an heir; and the thought filled her with dread.

***

Thorin was ushered into Dís’ chamber. He found his sister sitting by the fire, embroidering an intricate design in silver thread with long, skilled fingers. She looked up from her needlework.

“Brother! To what do I owe the extraordinary honour of your visit?”

Thorin braced himself. This was going to be trying. “Do I need a reason to visit my beloved sister?” he said with forced cheerfulness, and dismissed the guards and the servants.

“I see that wife of yours is now parading around in your colours,” Dís remarked, when they were alone at last.

“You liked her no better when she wore her own,” answered Thorin; and he pulled up a chair, and sat opposite his sister by the hearth.

“Have you come to commission some embroidery?” asked Dís icily. “She shall want _yards_ of trim with the markings of our house.”

“I did not think you would stoop to embroidering anything for my wife,” said Thorin.

“What else is there left for me to do, these days?” said Dís. “But have no fear, brother; I would leave some needles in the trim, just on the off-chance that she might prick herself.” She looked at him sourly. “Is not that what you want me to say?”

Thorin held his sister’s gaze, and sighed, remembering the purpose of his visit. “Sister. You cannot change what is done. Will you not cease nursing your spite, and look to the future? Shall we not have peace, you and I?”

“You said it yourself, brother,” she answered. “You cannot change what is done.” She looked as though she was about to say more, but she bit her tongue.

“Speak what is on your mind, sister,” Thorin said. “I came here to talk.”

Dís shot him a glance. “As if you did not already know what I have to say, brother. You have squandered your birthright, so that you might enjoy that southern horse-girl-”

“Enjoy?” Thorin interjected. How he hated that phrase. “You speak of her as though she were a meal, or a pipe!”

“- and you would bid me sit in the shadows, and hold my peace?” Dís went on. “But it is not your honour alone, brother; it is that of our house, _my_ house, and of our people!”

“And what exactly is so dishonourable about my marriage?” Thorin snarled.

“It is dishonourable, brother, because you betrayed your duty to your line. Because you have scorned the blood your fathers. Because being the heir of Durin came second to your…your brutish lust,” she spat. “But you do not need me to tell you this. Your own conscience would tell you that, were you but Dwarf enough to search it.”

Thorin stared long at his sister. He was grieved to see that her bitterness had not abated; and he marvelled once again that her comely young frame could house such venom. “Very well,” he said patiently, “I shall search my conscience, if that is what you wish.”

His thoughts turned inward, and he asked himself candidly whether he had not deceived himself. Had marrying his lady truly been a betrayal of his duty, as his sister and his father and the elders would have him think? He had honestly not thought so at the time; and neither did he think so now. He honestly believed that his bride was worthy of the line of Durin. He had thought that even before he knew he loved her, for Mahal’s sake.

True, she was no Dwarf; but he could not bring himself to think of that as a worse defect than, say, webbed toes, or mismatched eyes, or a slight lisp. It was nothing compared to her virtues. It was nothing compared to their love.

Thorin shook his head. “Honour, duty, custom, law, blood… listen to yourself, sister. Your words are as hard and cold as the blade of an axe.” He looked upon his sister, and he realised that he pitied her. “How could you understand it, you cold maid? You have never known the sweetness of love’s kiss, or the warmth of love’s embrace.”

Dís stared at him in disgust, looking as though she were determined never, ever to let a man do those unspeakable things to her.

“Sister,” Thorin went on, “do you know why we do not arrange matches, nor force a spouse upon our children, not even those of the royal house, as other folk do?” He thought of Helmwyn’s first husband for a brief moment, and shuddered. “Now do I fully understand what a blessing it is. To wed for anything else than love…I do not even want to think upon it.”

“And were none of our dwarf-maids good enough for you?” Dís asked. “The daughters of Erebor who were thrown onto the roads with us, who toiled with us, who survived with us? Has exile made them too coarse for your taste? Did you have to shame them thus?”

Thorin saw that there were tears in her proud eyes. He saw her sorrow, and he understood her loss; and he understood what she wanted. She wanted a home. She wanted family. She wanted the Mountain. She had tried so hard to hold the tattered remains of the line of Durin together - not unlike what he had tried to do. And now his marriage to a daughter of Men had made it unbearably plain to her that Erebor was lost for good. He saw her as the frightened little girl she still was, and smiled sadly.

“Why the smirk, brother?” spat Dís.

Thorin had remembered that he loved his sister, in spite of everything. “You are a defender, little gem; and a fierce one. And so is my lady – a defender of her land, and a leader of her people. I so wished that you two would become friends. I wish it still. Our folk have need of you, sister. I have need of you.”

Dís looked into her brother’s eyes as though the words he had just spoken were the ones she had longed to hear, and for a moment Thorin thought that he had reached through the walls of her pride. But the moment passed, and she looked down at her embroidery again. “You made your choice, brother,” she said.

“You speak of choices,” he said quietly, “but there was no choice; not for me. I could no more have walked away from my love than I could have torn my own heart from my breast.”

Much to Thorin’s surprise, Dís laughed. His cheeks burned as though she had just struck him.

“Capital!” said Dís merrily. “You had no choice in the matter! It was fated, no doubt. Then surely it is also fated that the heir of Durin shall be weak and short-lived? and that he shall have long ungainly limbs and a sparse beard? Do you know, brother, I almost look forward to seeing what offspring you produce.”

“Come now; don’t be disingenuous,” Thorin growled, irritated by his sister’s snide mockery. “The horse-people are strong, and they even have decent beards. So our children shall be tall and golden-haired. What of it? And in any case,” he added, “whatever human traits our children inherit, I daresay they will have faded from the bloodline within a couple of generations. So do not worry yourself about that.”

Dís smiled. “Tell me,” she asked sweetly, “have you never considered that you may not actually be able to breed with that filly of yours? Or did _love_ cloud your judgment to such an extent that the thought never occurred to you?”

The thought _had_ occurred to him of late, with ever-increasing frequency; but he would not give his sister the satisfaction of being right. “I ask you again, sister. Shall we not have peace?”

There was silence, save for the crackling of the fire.

“You are the one who came suing for peace, brother,” said Dís at last. “I ask for no such thing.”

Thorin looked at his sister, and saw how aloof and cool she contrived to appear. He perceived the hurt under her aloofness, but he did not know how to reach out to her. He had tried. Perhaps he ought to have come sooner. Perhaps he ought to have taken her in his arms, that night in the cellars, and told her that he forgave her. But perhaps he was too late; or perhaps no reconciliation was possible.

And he seriously began to think that if Dís were to wed, any sons of hers might challenge the rule of his own heir – should he ever succeed in begetting one. And if he did, Thorin reflected that he would have to prevent his sister from marrying.

So much for his fine words about the freedom to wed according to one’s wishes, he thought bitterly.

***

Thorin showed his wife unflagging support. Whenever he went to see craftsmen in their workshops and tradesmen in their warehouses, or when he inspected mineshafts and foundries, she walked beside him. Whenever he sat in council, and when he received petitions and gave audiences and resolved disputes, she sat beside him. And she watched, and listened, and learned; and she began to think that together, with his support and her hard work, they could actually achieve some degree of acceptance for her.

And in the evenings, Helmwyn would sit at her table in her chamber, and try to learn Khuzdul.

She knew she would not be taken altogether seriously until she could get by in Khuzdul. Of course, the elders would be dismayed that a human should sully their sacred language; but since she was technically a Dwarf, she was determined to master the wretched tongue, even if it took her years. At this rate, it _would_ take her years, she thought darkly. Her ambition was to have enough Khuzdul for stinging put-downs; though for now, her more modest aim was to understand enough to know when Dwarves spoke ill of her. She applied herself to it with the same bloody-mindedness as when she had tried to unravel the Mark’s finances; but what little progress she made seemed woefully slow.

There were few enough scrolls that had survived the sack of Erebor, and such documents as were now generated in the settlement tended to be in the common speech, and of a dry commercial nature at that. But as the Dwarves settled down in peace and began to prosper once more, some had begun to write down such songs and lore as they remembered. Balin had filched what he could, saying it was for his own purposes; for doubtless the elders would have frowned, had they known that their writings would be shown to the Prince’s human wife. But Balin gave the written pages to Helmwyn; and he did more. He had jotted down a few grammatical rules for her, telling her “You’ll see, lass, it’s easier than it sounds;” (2) and he advised her to take it slowly, one step at a time, and gave her little assignments.

The dwarven runes had taken some getting used to; but Helmwyn was able to decipher a document if given enough time, doggedly referring to the glossaries she had drawn up (and was constantly adding to), page upon page of them. But when it came to composing sentences, she was still on simple phrases like _Where is the raven?_ _The raven is on the tree_ ; and even that was giving her trouble.

Thorin came in to see how she was faring; and she told him her frustration concerning imperfect verbal forms. “Forgive me, my lord,” said she with a resigned sigh, “but I honestly doubt whether I shall ever be able to master this, even a little!” Thorin smiled to see the stubborn little frown on her brow; and he walked over to where she sat, and leaned over her shoulder to look at her scattered notes and papers. He thought about what he could do to help her. Then on a sudden impulse, he leaned closer, and spoke into her ear.

“ _Melhek tanakai_ _ni emûzêlhu; ra lai! yom Âzyungelhu_.” (3)

He spoke in the dwarven tongue. A shiver ran down Helmwyn’s spine. Thorin’s voice was dark, darker still than when he spoke in the common speech; and, as ever when he spoke in that ancient tongue, he appeared to her strange, and terrible, and kingly.

“ _Ezûhyeshzu ni ghelekhzu, nathith akhâmul!_ ” (4)

She only understood very little of what he was saying. It seemed to be love-talk, but there was something ancient and solemn about it, something stern and angular as the language itself. “ _Abbadizu tharkûl lavam ‘abanul_ _balhadizd khiduzul baluhul._ ” (5) Thorin’s lips and his beard brushed against her throat, and Helmwyn felt weak with desire. 

He pulled her to her feet, and drew her close; and his hands wandered over her body. “ _Nâm agulhazizu ughûregul,_ ” he purred against her lips, tantalizingly denying her the kiss she craved. (6) He took her by the waist, and sat her upon the table, and pulled up her gown - “ _Ghelekh bashkizu, toruvaiul torvunelul,_ ” said he (7) _-_ and he parted her legs, and ran his hands up her thighs, and made sure of her readiness. Helmwyn gasped.

“ _Ghelekhzu agûtholul murkhûr_ ” Thorin breathed, slowly stroking her. (8) Helmwyn hungrily reached for the laces of his breeches; but Thorin stopped her, and took care of that himself, and gently pushed her down onto the table.

Helmwyn lay back upon the parchments, and surrendered to her lord and husband. Thorin held his lady’s hips - “ _Melhek ganagai ni emûzel ghivashul,_ ” he said, and Helmwyn moaned; _“mahkajimaidhi_ _Âzyungelhu muzûm kamînul_.” (9) She wrapped her legs around him, and crumpled the parchments in her balled fists, and knocked over the inkwell; and Thorin made love to his wife on the few scraps of dwarven lore that remained west of the Mountains.

“ _Ku zu_ ,” he panted, as Helmwyn threw back her head and cried out, “ _ghelekh khiduzul, lukhud sanzigillu, sudur vabundhurul azâghul?_ ” (10)

*** 

After that, Helmwyn applied herself to her study of Khuzdul with renewed determination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Power-dressing: the continuation of warfare by other means.
> 
> (2) People whose native language is really difficult always say that.
> 
> (3) “The King hath come into his chambers; and behold! his Beloved awaits him.”
> 
> (4) “Thou art tall, yet comely, o daughter of Men!”
> 
> (5) “Thy body is as a pillar of alabaster bound with golden bands.”
> 
> (6) “The kisses of thy mouth are as mead.”
> 
> (7) “Fair are thy limbs, as though wrought by the finest craftsman.”
> 
> (8) “Thou art fair as a citadel whose walls are hung with shields.”
> 
> (9) “The King hath gone into the treasure-chamber; he hath adorned his Beloved with the gems of the earth.”
> 
> (10) “Who art thou, who art fair as gold, bright as mithril, terrible as a host ready for war?”
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: My thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar dot net. If he knew what his dictionaries are being used for...
> 
> And my sincerest apologies to any Dwarves out there for my rather slapdash approach to Khuzdul grammar. Corrections welcome!
> 
> And yes, in case you were wondering, that was the unholy offspring of A fish called Wanda and the Song of Songs. Who said Khuzdul wasn’t sexy?
> 
> *hides behind sofa*


	56. Chapter 55

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 55**

 

Helmwyn retched and heaved, though her stomach was surely empty by now.

Thorin was hovering nearby, worried; for Dwarves seldom, if ever, suffered from chills or fevers, unlike those fragile humans. Neither did they suffer overmuch from excess food or drink. Dwarves had stomachs of steel. “Did you eat something that did not become you?” he asked, hoping it was nothing worse. “Should I send for the leech?”

But Helmwyn knew those symptoms well enough, and cursed inwardly. “Rejoice, my lord,” she said weakly, “for I am with child!”

Thorin ran to her and tried to embrace her, but she held him at arm’s length, lest she heave again. “As for me,” she went on, “I shall rejoice when it is all over, for I have never felt so wretched in all my life.”

She eventually let Thorin lead her gently back to the bed; and he made her lie down, and smoothed the hair away from her clammy brow. Through the haze of nausea, she perceived that he was beside himself with joy.

“You look radiant,” he said, his eyes bright with happy tears.

“I look green,” she groaned, and rolled over onto her side, and seriously wished she were dead.

***

Helmwyn hated being pregnant.

She had hated it the first time around, and considered that she had had an extremely lucky escape - had she not miscarried, the child might well have proved a hindrance to her fighting and riding out (although there were wet-nurses for that sort of thing). More importantly, a child would most likely have made her marriage to Thorin problematic, if not downright impossible. Fortunately, that had taken care of itself. They had told her that it was not unusual for first pregnancies to end thus.

She had felt wretched at the time, too; but it had been nothing as bad as what she was going through now. Helmwyn tried to remind herself of how much she had wanted this, for Thorin’s sake; but now she was beginning to feel that nothing warranted such misery. Her body was rebelling. It rebelled against food, though surely it should have been keen on absorbing enough for two; but instead of that, every morning she experienced the ghastliest sickness, though in truth she had hardly eaten anything in days.

The smell of hot broth turned her stomach, and the texture of oatmeal turned her stomach, and she fancied milk, but could not keep it down; and in the end, all she could swallow was bland, lukewarm vegetable mash and stewed fruit. And even that was not sure to remain where it was.

When the worst of the spasms had passed, she would wobble over to her chamber, walking as shakily as a new-born colt; and she would collapse onto the daybed, and remain there, languishing. She could not _do_ anything useful. She would have had secretaries come in with reports; but she could not even _think_.

She received Balin though, for he was one of the few people whom she did not mind seeing her like this. He would tell her news of the settlement, in small easy chunks she could face, and he chatted to her amicably - more so that she could hear some friendly noises than to convey any real information; and she was grateful for his kindness, and acknowledged it with a smile that looked rather like a grimace. Sometimes he would look at her all misty-eyed, and pat her hand, and say something like “You look radiant.”

“Balin?” she would groan. “Don’t. Just - don’t.”

Helmwyn wondered whether she would have to endure this wretchedness for a mere nine months, or whether, since with Dwarves everything tended to take longer than with normal people, she would not have to wait several ghastly years until her term, or however long it took them. She asked the leech about this; and he was baffled, and said that he was not an expert in human physiology. And so they sent for a human midwife from one of the settlements nearby; but since there had never, to anyone’s knowledge, been a pairing such as this one, no-one could answer her.

Her misery was compounded by boredom; for if she could do nothing useful, neither could she entertain herself. She could not ride, nor train, nor hunt, nor anything of the sort. She reflected on how much her world had shrunk; from the wide plains of the Mark, she was now confined to her bower, and that made her fretful. But she kept telling herself that this would only be temporary; and in any case, her world would never be too small, as long as Thorin Oakenshield was part of it.

Thorin’s harp stood in her mountainside chamber, and she tried to learn to play it in a rather desultory way; but she soon gave up, as she well knew she had not the necessary skill in her fingers. (1) But she would search through her collection of songs, and pick out old tunes clumsily on the strings of the harp; and she would lean against the instrument’s wooden frame, and close her eyes, and the memory of music and the thought of Thorin would soothe her for a little while.

In the evenings, when the sickness had lifted slightly, Thorin made love to her very cautiously, not so much because he feared to harm the child, but lest she begin to feel discomfort or nausea. She protested at first, and said that she could not currently bear the thought of being lain on; but after Thorin spent a few leisurely minutes kissing her nether lips, she let herself be persuaded. But the gentlest lovemaking yielded the keenest pleasure; and indeed she usually felt a little better after that.

As for Thorin, he positively fussed over his wife. He smiled at her ill-humour, and brought her cushions, and sang her songs, and was attentive to her every need. All that Helmwyn really wanted to do was to sleep through her pregnancy; but she saw that Thorin was giddy with happiness, and so she indulged him, and let him fuss. She would gaze at him fondly, and stroke his beard; and Thorin was pleased that he succeeded in bringing a smile to his lady’s pale face.

His sheer joy at becoming a father was such that he all but danced around the place. His elation was contagious; and Dwarves would smile when he walked past them, humming to himself. Thráin seemed pleased at the news, and even the elders seemed to think that after all, a half-human heir was better than no heir at all. Dís only glowered, but Thorin shrugged it off.

In truth, Thorin hated seeing his lady so wretched; and he felt a little guilty, as he had had a part in this. But he found her fertility inexplicably arousing. Helmwyn would wake every morning to find him nuzzling her throat, his hands cupping her taut little breasts and his hardness pressing against the small of her back. She was touched and flattered that he should want her even in her current sorry state, and eagerly rolled over into his warm embrace.

“But I am already pregnant!” she would tease him. “Don’t I know it,” he would tease her back. But then he would add: “Mahal. How beautiful you are.” And she saw that his eyes were dark with desire; and she did not bother to contradict him, but pressed herself against her husband’s powerful body.

All this would have been most enjoyable, were it not for the fact that, more often than not, she had to interrupt the proceedings to run off and be sick.

***

Gróa spent a good deal of time with Helmwyn in her chamber. She mostly looked into the trading figures and customs duties and taxes, while Helmwyn dozed on the daybed; but whenever she awoke from her fitful slumber, Helmwyn would thank her stars for Gróa. Gróa could whip numbers into obedience like a pack of subservient puppies.

“Gróa, you are a marvel,” she told her regularly; “I do not know how we would manage without you.”

“ _I_ know how you would manage: badly, that’s how,” Gróa would reply; and they would both smile. Even Gróa’s penmanship was authoritative. She used red ink and black ink, and a straight, bold hand; and her accounts read like sheet music.

Sometimes Helmwyn would risk distracting Gróa to ask her about dwarven family life. She was not usually one to ask personal questions; but after that episode in the bath-house, Helmwyn knew that if she did not inquire about the earthier subjects, Gróa was bound to bring them up herself sooner or later.

“Gróa?” she asked. “Is there anything I ought to know about Dwarflings? Besides the fact that they are usually born after a twelvemonth, have facial hair, and are sensitive to light?” Helmwyn had been especially depressed when she was told about the twelvemonth.

“Aye, there is,” said Gróa. “Don’t have any if you can help it.”

“It’s a little late for that,” answered Helmwyn. “Why, are they that terrifying?” She had not seen many young Dwarflings, though a number had been born in the settlement of late. Dwarves apparently kept them under lock and key until they were big enough to swing an axe. Perhaps that was a habit born of exile.

“They certainly put a damper on your career,” said Gróa. “Take my sister-in-law, Eir. Very talented goldsmith in her own right, she is. Well, that was all over when those two little Orcs of hers came along. And on the road, too. It’s a relief Thorin offered me this position, otherwise I’d still have to help out with the brats.”

Helmwyn was not especially fond of children, but she was surprised to hear Gróa speak thus of her nephews. “I am shocked, Gróa,” said Helmwyn with mock indignation. “And there was I thinking that Dwarves held their kin sacred!”

“You don’t know my nephews,” grumbled Gróa. “Well, perhaps I am being unfair on Óin. He was always a strange lad, sullen and restive, never really applied himself to any craft; but now he’s been apprenticed to an apothecary, and that seems to have calmed him down. Perhaps he’s growing up; or perhaps he’s finally found just the thing that suited him. But Glóin… Durin, don’t get me started on Glóin. The boy’s a handful. Always running about the place, yelling and waving his wooden axes around, breaking things. He’s a bully too; keeps getting into fights with the other kids. And he answers back. Does what he pleases. There’s no controlling him. He drives poor Eir to tears; and my fathead of a brother indulges him. Says the lad is boisterous.”

“And how old is Glóin now?” Helmwyn asked.

“Thirty-six,” said Gróa. “Mahal help us when he hits puberty.”

 _Thirty-six?_ thought Helmwyn, and blanched. At least human children became reasonably self-reliant after ten years or so. It dawned on her now that she would be looking after a small child for the rest of her days; and she was horrified.

 _Think of Thorin as a lad_ , she told herself quickly. _Thoughtful, responsible, grown-up beyond his years. There’s no reason our child should be any different_. But Helmwyn also remembered how she had been as a child - inquisitive, stubborn, and interested weapons, much to her mother’s despair - and groaned inwardly.

***

Trade flourished in the Blue Mountains, and an increasing number of folk were coming to market in the settlement before Thráin’s Halls, sometimes from far afield. And so it was not long until a pair of enterprising souls decided to open an inn. They were called Sverri and Éolf; and as will easily be deduced from their names, one was a Dwarf, and the other was a Rider of the Mark who had come north with the lady Helmwyn.

Each of the two had wanted to open his own establishment at first (and indeed whenever they got on each other’s nerves, each would still threaten to storm off and do just that); but as it turned out, the idea of running the tavern together was the best they could have had. The inn attracted customers of both races (and the occasional adventurous Halfling). It did a roaring trade on market days; but even when things were quieter, local folk liked to congregate in that house, for it was warm and welcoming, and such a place had been sorely lacking in the settlement.

The Rider made mead, and the Dwarf knew how to distil strong drink; and together they brewed several types of ale, both light and dark, now that there was grain to spare. And as far as the cuisine was concerned, they served cold cuts, and bread and cheese, and a universal brown stew, and folk seemed content with that.

There had been some initial arguing about how they would name the inn; and indeed both associates had nearly parted ways over that. Éolf had wanted to call it _The_ _White Horse_ ; Sverri was adamant that they should call it _The_ _Hammer & Tongs_. They agreed that _The_ _King’s Head_ would have been in poor taste (on account of Thrór) and that _The_ _Orc’s Head_ would have been unappetizing. Eventually they had settled on _The_ _Royal Oak_ \- a sensible name for an inn, and a mark of respect for Thorin, who was much loved among the folk of the settlement.

Thorin and Dwalin walked into the public house together, one evening after a bout of sparring. They were sweat-stained and pleasantly spent, and were looking forward to a pint or two of Sverri’s excellent ale; and they sat companionably in the common room, and the simple folk were pleased to see once again that their Prince was not too proud to mingle among them.

Folk had heard word that the lady was expecting, and so they wandered up to Thorin, and clapped him on the shoulder, and offered their congratulations, and Thorin did not mind their familiarity, but smiled; and folk were pleasantly surprised that their usually dour Prince was in such glad spirits.

Thorin felt that a little more was called for, and so at last he stood, and announced in a loud, clear voice to the assembled company: “I see that most of you have already heard my glad news, so there is not much left for me to say save this: since I have cause to celebrate, I would have you celebrate with me – Sverri! Éolf! A round of your best, if you please!”

This was greeted with a chorus of cheers (2); and Thorin secretly hoped that the innkeepers would agree to chalk it all up on his slate, for he had not brought enough coin for this. Folk raised their mugs, and drank to the good health of Prince Thorin, and his wife, and his heir.

Thorin sat down again when the cheering had died down a little; and he filled his pipe, and lit it, and pulled on it with relish. “A pint and a pipe,” he said to Dwalin. “Mahal, how I have missed it.”

“Why? Burden of rule get in the way of simple pleasures?” asked Dwalin.

“No, it’s Helmwyn,” said Thorin. “I can’t smoke anywhere near her.”

“I never knew it bothered her.”

“It never used to; but right now it turns her stomach. Most smells do.”

“Aaaaaah, I see,” said Dwalin, as understanding dawned (3). He laughed. “You’d better clean yourself up when you get back, then. Can’t think how she’ll greet you if you cuddle up to her reeking of sweat and ale and roast meat!”

Thorin grinned. “Aye, you have a point. Ale and meat would not go down at all well. But I am fortunate at least that she doesn’t seem to mind the smell of Dwarf.” Dwalin laughed louder.

Around them the evening became merry, and folk began to sing. (As most of the folk present were Dwarves, the drunken singing was comparatively tuneful).

“How is she?” Dwalin asked. “Balin said she’s feeling pretty rough.”

“Well, there’s no denying she’s having a miserable time of it,” said Thorin candidly. “She can hardly keep anything down. At this rate she’ll actually get thinner and thinner as the pregnancy progresses. AND she’s pretty crabby.”

“Is it that bad?”

“You know her. She can’t stand being cooped up. Keeps complaining that she’s no use to anyone in her present state.” Thorin also strongly suspected that she was terrified, and needed a great deal of love and reassurance; but he did not tell Dwalin that. Instead he smiled and said: “You should go and visit her.”

“Won’t she bite my head off?”

“Nonsense, she’d be pleased to see you! It’s not like she’ll be making it down the training-grounds anytime soon. Besides, you’ve always managed to cheer her up.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother her -”

“Scared of a pregnant woman, are you?” said Thorin with a grin.

Someone produced a hide drum, and someone else a lyre; and soon there was a merry noise, and some boisterous folk pushed tables aside and began to dance, and the others clapped their hands more or less in time. Dwalin regretted that he did not have his fiddle with him, for he was in cheerful mood, and would have liked nothing better than to give them a tune or two.

“To tell you the truth,” said Thorin, “I can’t wait to begin axe training with him -”

“- or her -”

Thorin laughed. “- or her, aye…”

“I can just picture it, you know,” said Dwalin. “If you have a daughter, she’s going to be an axe-wielding maniac; and she’ll run circles around you, because you’ll absolutely dote on her.”

“I like to think I shall be loving yet stern,” said Thorin; though in truth he suspected that Dwalin was all too right.

Dwalin went on speculating. “And if it’s a boy…?”

Thorin thought wistfully of the burden that awaited the poor little lad. “…If it’s a boy, I’ll make sure he has a normal childhood. Grazed knees, climbing rocks, stealing cakes from the kitchens, trout-fishing, stories by the fireside. Everything.” Thorin had not had a normal childhood.

They both listened to the music distractedly for a while, lost in thought.

“Fancy you becoming a dad,” said Dwalin after a while.

“Aye,” said Thorin. They were both thinking that there was a pub in the Blue Mountains, and that Thorin had a child on the way, and that folk were prosperous and happy, and that, all in all, life was good. It did feel a little strange after all these years; but there it was. They were home – for a little while, at least.

“Thorin?”

“Hmm?”

“You look radiant.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Thorin good-naturedly.

***

Helmwyn needed to feel useful; and in those days, all that she could usefully do was learn.

But the days were long, and often Thorin would come and join her in her chamber, to keep her company, whenever his duties allowed. He would bring paperwork from his study, and pore over it at her table; or else he would play on his harp, and let her work - though at such times Helmwyn soon gave up trying to translate _The axe of my aunt is on the anvil_ , and listened to him instead. She would sometimes jot down the tune he was playing, mainly to look as though she were working; but more often than not, she would rise, and go to sit close to him, and Thorin would smile apologetically for distracting her. (4)

His harp was a handsome thing of dark wood, carved with dwarven patterns and inlaid with silver; it had a stark beauty, and she thought how well it suited him. It was indeed taller than Halfdan’s harp had been, and rested on the floor; and its voice was both clear and full, with rich, warm bass notes that hung long in the air after its longest strings had been sounded.

Helmwyn watched Thorin as he played, his handsome profile intent, almost prayerful, the muscles in his broad shoulders working, his hands surprisingly graceful as they ran over the strings, plucking arpeggios and trills from the instrument; and she saw that he breathed with the music, as though he were himself singing. But sometimes he would glance up at her, and he would see how her eyes shone.

“My lady,” he asked her once, “that song you once sang in Lindburg, the one that was so sweet and sad…do you have it written down?”

“ _The Linden Tree_?”

“Aye, the very one.”

“Indeed I have it, my lord; though my notes are a little crude – I hope you shall be able to read from them.” She went to find the parchment for him. He could not make out the words, for they were in the tongue of the Mark; and Helmwyn told herself that she ought to translate the song into the common tongue. But Thorin picked out the tune on his harp, then played around with it a little, trying out how best to harmonise it; and Helmwyn sat a little behind him, watching as he jotted down a few additional notes on her parchment. Then he began to play in earnest.

He played simply at first, allowing the melody to unfold its melancholy grace, framed in plain chords; but little by little, he added ornaments, and fleshed out the accompaniment, and improvised variations and countermelodies. Helmwyn would have liked nothing better than to sing to Thorin’s playing, and perhaps Thorin expected it too; but her voice caught in her throat, so moved was she to hear Thorin play this song.

It told of their love, in more ways than she had ever realised. She had sung it for him long ago, when she loved him already, but did not know it yet. Later, during their bitter years of parting, merely hearing it had become unendurable. How differently the song spoke to her now! She thought of the home she had left, and of the home he had lost; and she thought that for all the danger and the grief they had faced, they were blessed to be together at last, and were now making a home of their own. Her heart swelled with love and hope and gratitude; and when Thorin finished playing, she leaned against his back, and wound her arms about his waist, and laid her head upon his shoulder.

They stayed like that in loving silence for a long while; and though Thorin did not rightly know what the song was about, it spoke to him of peace after long wandering, of spring after winter, of deep roots and new beginnings. He turned to his lady, and saw that she had been weeping. “Forgive me if the song has made you maudlin,” he said, and kissed her eyelids. But Helmwyn smiled through her tears. “It is pregnancy that makes me maudlin, my lord,” she said. “But these are tears of happiness – let them flow!”

They embraced tenderly; and Thorin savoured that moment of happiness, sweet and heady like mead on his tongue. Perhaps the child within was soothed by the music, too.

***

Helmwyn woke in the middle of the night, and complained of cramps and backache. Thorin at once felt the cold hand of fear grip his heart. He called to the servants to fetch the leech, and held his lady’s hand as she tried to breathe through the pain. She soon noticed that she was bleeding, and Thorin could only watch and wait, feeling utterly powerless.

It was all over by the time the leech arrived. In any case, there was nothing he could have done. Helmwyn sat, pale and empty-eyed, while the servant-women changed the sheets, and the leech assured Thorin that this was nothing unusual, and that many first pregnancies ended thus. He assured Thorin that it would in no way prevent the lady from conceiving again.

Thorin’s face was closed. Helmwyn said nothing of her fist miscarriage. Perhaps there had been others she had not even known of, that she had mistaken for her normal bleeding. There was no way of telling - her cycles were so irregular. She began to think in earnest that she was somehow malformed, that she would never be able to bear children.

When the leech and the servants were gone, and they were left alone, they spoke not a word to each other; but Helmwyn curled against Thorin’s chest, and shook with bitter sobs. And he held her tight, and buried his face in her hair, and wept silently; and together they mourned the loss of their child.

But Helmwyn’s grief was mixed with guilt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Even her handwriting was more of an energetic scrawl.
> 
> (2) Like a solar eclipse, a Dwarf buying rounds is an exceptionally rare event.
> 
> (3) The workings of pregnant human females were a bit of a mystery to him – as indeed to most Dwarves.
> 
> (4) Though not very apologetically.


	57. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, boys and girls! Sorry for the late update, I am currently AWAY. On the plus side, I did get to see Mr. Armitage in the Crucible, which was nice.
> 
> So this week, Thorin and Helmwyn go on a short trip to the Grey Havens. Enjoy!

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 56**

 

On clear summer mornings, Helmwyn liked to go and stand on the terrace on the mountainside. She would lean on the stone parapet, and watch the sun rising over the green lands to the east; and she would look westward, where the rolling heights of the mountains faded blue in the distance, their vales still half-wreathed in mist. She would feel the warm morning sun on her face, and the cool mountain air in her hair, and she felt peaceful and contented. This place truly was her home now.

Thorin would smile to see her thus; and he would go to her, and put his arms around her, and they would stand together in that high place, just as they had stood on the Deeping-Wall. But now they saw about them not the forbidding grey chasm of Helm’s Deep, and the grassy plains of the Mark beyond, but blue woods of pine and fir, and red cliffs, and mountain-torrents and waterfalls, and green mountain-meadows bright with flowers; and Thorin reflected that this was not such a bad home after all. He too was beginning to love this place.

On such mornings he would breathe deep the green scent of the high pine forests, and the warm scent of his lady’s hair; and he would play with the little mithril clasps that adorned her braids.

Ever since the miscarriage, they had not spoken of the matter again. Thorin stubbornly clung to hope, because he had to; and after all, he reflected, if his wife had conceived once, there was no reason she should not be able to conceive again. But he saw that she blamed herself, and feared that she had disappointed him. And so he had crafted these mithril beads, stamped with the device of his house; and he had given them to his lady, to show her – and the world – that he loved her no less than before.

The gift had pierced Helmwyn’s heart, for she knew how precious true-silver was, and how little of it there was left; and she suspected that Thorin had taken a few more links from his mailshirt in order to make her these. He had braided them into her hair himself, singling out little strands from among her heavy golden curls; and when he had finished, he had kissed her brow. And Helmwyn had understood that, just as mithril was stronger than steel, and did not alter, so his love would not change, whether or not she gave him an heir. A great weight had fallen from her shoulders then; and she felt healed.

***

Emissaries had come from the Elves of the Grey Havens, bearing an invitation to the lord Círdan’s residence on the occasion of some elven summer festival or other. Thorin grumbled that the dwarven settlement had become important enough that the elven lords could no longer afford to ignore him; but neither did they deem him so important that this Círdan would come in person to his halls.

“I hope they are not expecting me to pay homage to this exalted personage,” he said testily, pacing his study when the elven ambassadors had gone.

“No more so than is necessary to maintain cordial relations between neighbours, I’m sure,” said Balin soothingly.

“…hate bloody Elves,” Thorin muttered between clenched teeth.

“Come now, Thorin, my lad. Surely you can grin and bear it for one evening? It’ll be good for trade!”

“And what if it goes well?” Thorin exclaimed. “They might ask me again next year! Or worse, they’ll turn up here and expect to be entertained, a whole caravan of the preening fops!”

“I doubt they would be willing to go that far,” said Balin.

“They might,” said Thorin bitterly; “just for the pleasure of sneering at our halls.”

“Do you honestly think any of that lot in the Havens ever saw Erebor? They’re rather provincial.”

“You never know,” answered Thorin. “They get so old, some of them may even have seen Khazad-Dum itself.”

Balin had nothing to reply to that.

***

And so, for all of Thorin’s grumbling, it was decided.

In the days leading up to their departure, Thorin frowned like a thundercloud. Helmwyn had long put off asking him what his quarrel was with the Elves, as she feared it would upset him more; but at last she ventured to ask, lest she put her foot in it at the Havens and cause a diplomatic incident. “Has this anything to do with the ancient war over the fabled dwarven necklace?” she asked.

“Nay, my lady,” Thorin answered; “though indeed that grudge still rankles with Dwarves and Elves, and may account for the long enmity between both peoples. To this day each folk blames the other for the starting of that war, though the truth of the matter is now lost in the mists of time. Nay, but in the days of the Mountain Kingdom, it seemed that both races had succeeded in setting that grudge aside; and for a while Dwarves, Elves and Men lived and traded in peace – as long as the Mountain was strong.”

Thorin’s face darkened; and he told Helmwyn how, after the sack of Erebor, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm had reneged on the ancient alliance between their peoples, and had left Durin’s folk to fend for themselves in the wild, offering them neither food nor shelter. Helmwyn was horrified.

“And must we now go and exchange pleasantries with folk who betrayed you, what, barely half a century ago?” she asked in disbelief.

Thorin sighed. “In truth,” he said, “the Elves at the Havens are not kin to the Woodland Elves – at least not close kin, as far as I can tell. I ought not to blame them for the faithlessness of others, I know that well. And yet…I like them not, my lady. It cannot be helped. They raise my hackles.”

Helmwyn had only ever seen a few Elves from afar before Círdan’s envoys came, but she could see what Thorin meant. These Elves had been mere merchants; but they had been clad in silks, and carried themselves with an air so haughty that the courtiers of Dol Amroth would doubtless have liked to emulate it.

“How do you wish me to behave towards them, my lord?” she asked. “I would be as courteous to them than the necessities of trade warrant, but no more so; I would show my loyalty towards you.”

Thorin gave a gentle laugh. “Well should I like you to break a few noses, my lady! Nothing would please me more,” he said. “But alas, I fear you shall have to be charming for the two of us.” He felt he would need all of his lady’s support to avoid breaking an Elf’s nose himself. That sort of diplomatic incident would not be so good for trade.

***

If her part was to show diplomacy for Thorin’s sake, Helmwyn resolved at least to show off her husband’s wealth and power, and the pride of Durin’s folk. The Elves were pleased to float around in silks? Very well. She would do the opposite.

She had the necklace remade, in which was set the star sapphire Thorin had given her. She did it regretfully, for it pained her to destroy something that had been crafted in the Mark; but she felt it necessary that the necklace be entirely dwarven in style.

Furthermore, she commissioned from Valdur (unless it were Vardur) a ceremonial gown festooned with gilded scales and encrusted with jewels. She wanted something more like armour than like a gown; something not unlike the mosaics and statues with which the Dwarves adorned their halls. She wanted something stiff and angular and _impressive_.

It would have been rather less than impressive, had anyone found out that the ‘crystals’ that hung on the thing were actually cut glass beads; but if she was aware of the need to make an impression at the elven court, Helmwyn was not going to spend all of Thorin’s gold on preposterous gowns.

“But, my lady,” Vardur objected (unless it were Valdur), “what if they should come undone, and folk should notice they are glass-?”

“Then you had better make sure they do not come undone,” replied Helmwyn drily.

In any case, she very much doubted whether Elves could even tell the difference.

***

At last, Thorin rode into Mithlond with as lavish an entourage as he could muster. It was not much, by Erebor standards; but it was important to keep up appearances. The Heir of Durin was not brought so low that he would let himself be out-lavished by backwater Elves.

They had struck the old East Road, and for a short while they followed the river Lune as it turned seawards in a wide arc. At last the river broadened and slowed, between steep slopes clad with ever sparser woods; and as they rode past the shoulder of a hill, the Gulf of Lune opened up before them. They saw the Havens, huddling at the tip of the bay; and beyond, the Sea gleamed dully, like molten lead.

The mountains reared high around the bay, sheltering the harbour between their arms. Grey here was the stone, and grey the buildings, grey was the sea, and grey the sky; and the sea-air settled on their skin and their clothes in fine droplets that were not quite rain. Sea-birds wheeled overhead, and cried their mournful cries; and the dull rumour of the Sea was ever on the edge of hearing, like the slow deep breathing of some large slumbering creature.

Helmwyn had seen the Sea before, and it held no especial fascination for her: the lands came to an end, and then there was water, and that was that. Yet she perceived a melancholy about the place, as though the town were long past the height of its glory, and folk were abandoning it, and it teetered on the edge of oblivion.

As for Thorin, he found the Havens dreary, and wet.

Such few townsfolk as were out about their business stared at the dwarven delegation, for they looked very splendid; and they wondered at the lady on the tall grey horse, dressed in dwarven garments, her hair braided and held with silver clasps after the dwarven fashion. Thorin smiled to himself, and wondered whether these folk should be told that here was the lady from the _Iron and stone_ song. He thought the song could do with a new verse; after all, there it was: she had chosen iron and stone like she had said she would, and the song ought to have ended with a wedding. But he said nothing - perhaps because the tale was not yet fully told, and he did not wish to tempt fate.

The lord Círdan’s residence was located across from the harbour, on the far side of the estuary, where the river Lune widened into a long crescent-shaped gulf. Slender elven boats waited on the docks; and the Dwarves were forced to leave their mounts behind at the trading-post, and to let themselves be ferried across to the palace. “Trust him to live over there,” grumbled Thorin. “Good honest harbour-town not good enough for him?” Like most Dwarves, Thorin did not like boats. He thought the elven boatmen were sneering at his discomfort; and he felt that the whole thing was rather humiliating.

The crossing was utterly uneventful; yet the Dwarves alighted gratefully on the other side, and climbed the shallow stone steps that led to the tall pillared house, where they were welcomed by an Elf of Círdan’s household. “Greetings,” the Elf called in the common tongue; “Galdor is my name; and on behalf of my lord, Círdan the Shipwright, I bid you welcome to Mithlond. I trust you have-” The Elf’s gracious smile froze into a grimace as his eyes rested on Thorin.

“Why, greetings, Master Elf,” said Thorin jauntily. “I am pleased that we should meet again. So tell me, how are you and that horse getting on? I have often wondered.”

“Have you indeed,” said the Elf through clenched teeth.

“What a splendid black beast he was. I was sorry to part with him.”

“Were you now,” said the Elf, giving Thorin a dark look.

“I take it the horse thrives in your care?” Thorin inquired breezily.

Galdor struggled to phrase an exquisitely polite yet scathing retort, but could only come up with: “The horse thrives, certainly.”

Thorin grinned. “That shall please my lady,” he said.

“Aye, that it does,” Helmwyn added with a smile. “Endwerc is one of the finest steeds that ever was foaled in the Mark. It warms my heart that he has found a loving master in you.”

A fuming Galdor led them into the house, and showed them to their lodgings; but Thorin whispered to Helmwyn: “You see, my lady? I knew the Elf would not have the heart to stew the beast.”

“I confess I am amazed,” Helmwyn replied; “but I must concede. You have won this wager, my lord!”

“Remind me, my lady. What was it we wagered again?”

Galdor heard muffled laughter behind him, and fumed all the more.

***

Thorin walked into the dining-hall at a solemn and stately pace, holding his wife’s hand in his. This he did on account of the formal occasion, but also to steady her, as she found it difficult to walk in her ceremonial gown. It was so stiff with gilded scales and so heavy with faceted beads that she could hardly move. But however awkward her gown might have felt, it certainly looked impressive. It gleamed with gold thread and glittered with jewels; and judging by the look on the Elves’ faces, their attire was having the desired effect.

Thorin swallowed nervously. He felt as though he had walked into a nest of adders. All he wanted was for this evening to be over as quickly as possible. He squeezed his wife’s hand, to let her know how thankful he was for her support, and also how proud he was of her. He thought she looked like the Queen of Erebor. He thought she ought by right to have been the Queen of Erebor; and his heart was soured once more by bitterness, and by resentment of the Elves.

In truth, if the Elves beheld the Dwarf lord’s display of wealth, they found it rather vulgar. They thought Dwarves in general rather vulgar. Not that they had many dealings with them; but they all knew that Dwarves were greedy folk, and this was rather confirmed by the ostentatious shirt of silver rings the Dwarf lord wore. In fact, in their eyes, he looked like an affluent merchant – were it not for that uncouth dwarven habit of bearing battle-axes to the dinner table. The Elves found that offensive. The Elves usually elected to give offense by more refined means.

Murmurs spread through the room, as the Elves eyed the Dwarf lord, and his entourage, and that wife of his – “Is she _human_? The poor thing. Whatever made her marry _that_? Can you imagine having to…with that stunted, hairy little brute? Ai! Not for all the jewels in the world could I do that!”

The dwarven delegation stood around rather awkwardly, and made no attempts at mingling; and none of the Elves attempted to mingle with them. But then an Elf came forth, and walked towards Thorin. “I greet you, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,” he spoke; “I am Círdan, and this is my house. Never before have we had the honour of welcoming the Heir of Durin here in Mithlond. I bid you sit at my table, and share wine and fruit with me; and if it please you, later we shall walk in the gardens, and gaze upon the stars of Elbereth, as is our custom on this night.”

Thorin stared at the Elf. He was very tall, and clad in raiment that shimmered silver-grey like the Sea. Sea-grey were his eyes, and his hair too was silver, though he seemed ageless. His voice was deep and sonorous. But what really struck Thorin was the beard. Thorin had never even heard tell of Elves with beards. He was not entirely sure whether the beard made this Elf any more congenial. “Er…” Thorin croaked. “My thanks to the lord of the Havens for his gracious invitation,” he managed. “I trust this visit shall herald new, mutually profitable ties between the Grey Havens and the Blue Mountains.” Círdan acknowledged that with a smile and a slight nod. Then he turned to Helmwyn, and welcomed her, and spoke a few fair words about the house of Eorl; and Helmwyn curtsied as best she could, which was not much.

Thorin led his lady to the table, and noticed with some irritation that the chairs intended for the dwarven guests had been piled high with cushions. Helmwyn sat down very carefully, alert to the creaking and groaning of her gown. As for Thorin, he tried to sit down with as much dignity as he could muster, failed, and scattered the cushions. He cursed in Khuzdul. “Mahal give me patience,” he muttered to Helmwyn when they had settled down at last. She squeezed his hand under the table.

Dishes were brought; and Thorin stared in dismay at a plateful of uncooked leaves. He poked at them, hoping to find something interesting underneath. There were more leaves. “Is this meant as an insult?” he asked, his already frayed temper rising.

Much to his relief, meat dishes were served to the Dwarves soon afterwards. The meat was a great concession on the part of the Elves; but that was entirely lost on their guests. Thorin stared balefully at his meagre plate of quail and tiny vegetables. “I hope the Elves will be less niggardly with the wine,” grumbled Thorin, knocking back another glass. Helmwyn was picking at her little slices of raw fish, trying to make them last.

Thorin’s ill-humour grew worse with each new course. Helmwyn did her best to lighten his mood. “What do you expect, my lord?” she told him. “Just look at them. Can you picture any of those Elves ploughing a field, or milking a cow, or butchering a pig, or getting their hands dirty in any way? No wonder they live off radishes.”

“Aye, and they look like it, too,” Thorin growled.

Indeed, the Elves seemed entirely content to nibble on their raw leaves. “Sweet Mahal, some of them are eating flowers!” said Thorin in disgust. On a balcony above, elven musicians plucked lutes and played flutes so long that they had to hold them sideways. The general effect was pleasing, if a little dull. Thorin fidgeted.

The lord Círdan ate little, and spoke little; and he seemed content merely to listen and smile benevolently as the Elves of his court talked and laughed. Sometimes it seemed as though he listened to the sweet music; but his eyes were fixed on something far away and out of sight.

Dessert was brought at last: thin slices of fruit, and the occasional berry. Thorin was reaching the end of his tether. “It seems it is a habit of the Elves to try and starve us!” he said none too quietly. A few Elves turned to stare at him. Helmwyn laid her hand on his, and whispered in his ear: “I daresay there are decent meat pies to be found in the town, my lord. Let us send for some tomorrow.”

“So much for elven hospitality,” said Thorin darkly. He expected the rumbling of his stomach would keep him up all night.

After dinner, all rose, and repaired to the gardens. Thorin resigned himself to the fact that this was all the food he was going to get; and he rose reluctantly and followed the Elves outside. Green terraces led down to the seafront; and the Elves carried small silver lanterns, most like stars themselves, and they raised their faces to the night sky, and sang hymns to Elbereth, the Star-Queen, in soft, clear voices.

“How long shall we have to put up with this?” growled Thorin under his breath.

“A little longer, my love. We shall leave as soon as it is polite to do so.”

“Polite! I’ll give them polite.”

The lord Círdan came towards them, to see whether his guests were content, as a gracious host would. “My lord Thorin!” he said. “I was grieved to hear the calamity that has befallen Durin’s folk. But now your people have found a new home; and I trust that soon your halls shall be as splendid and renowned as the great dwarven kingdoms of old.”

Thorin was unsure whether this was meant as mockery or no. “Did you ever see the Mountain?” he asked warily.

“Nay, that I did not.”

“The Dwarrowdelf, then?”

“Nay. But I remember other great halls and mighty works of your people. I saw Nogrod and Belegost in the days of their glory. Fair were the halls of Tumunzahar, and strong were the pillars of Gabilgathol, ere the mountains were broken and the lands were changed.”

Thorin felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He shuddered to hear this Elf speak the dwarven names of those great halls of yore. But more so, he shuddered to think that this being who now stood before him in the flesh had been alive an age ago, or more. The years seemed to radiate off him. Thorin thought of the yawning abyss of time that separated them; and he felt sick.

Thorin had no intention of settling in the Blue Mountains for good; but defiantly he spoke to the Elf-lord: “We shall make the Blue Mountains glorious once more, and once more gold shall flow; never fear.”

“It heals my heart to hear it,” said Círdan with a bow.

“Come, my lady; let us retire,” he said to Helmwyn when Círdan had gone. “That bearded Elf…he gives me the creeps.”

“Do you think him hostile, my lord? He seems to me to be rather benevolent, even though the rest of his court look down on us.”

“Aye,” Thorin rumbled, “I daresay he is benevolent, just as the mountain is benevolent towards the mouse; for what is the mouse to the mountain? Nay, but he is old as mountains, perhaps older than the mountains themselves. What are we to such a being?”

***

That night, Thorin could not, or would not, make love. The bed was too soft, and it was hung with silks - pale pink, of all colours. Even that irked him. And so he lay in the dark, tossing and turning, and brooding over his resentment of the Elves.

He felt again the smarting shame of destitution. He knew that for all his pride, and for all his furs and velvets and silver rings, he was the prince of a people brought low, and his halls were but poor lodgings in exile. His folk needed the Elves to prosper; and once again Thorin felt like a beggar at the Elves’ door.

And deep in his heart he remembered the anguish he had suffered on account of his mother, whose burns might perhaps have been healed, had the Elves but helped Durin’s folk after the dragon came. Thorin realised bitterly that he envied them their long lives, and their skill in healing, and their unchanging youthfulness; and he envied them the fact that they would never truly be sundered from their loved ones, even in death.

Beside him, Helmwyn felt how tense he was, and how agitated; and indeed she knew that his peevishness of that evening had not abated. “Tell me, my lord,” she bade him gently; and he told her again how the Elves abandoned them. “The Elves here may not be of the woodland kin; but they are all the same,” he growled. He thought of Galdor and Thranduil and Círdan and the lot of them. “I hate the airs they give themselves. So aloof, so full of themselves. So condescending. I know that in their hearts they despise us short-lived peoples. To them we are little more than gnats!” he spat, simmering with rage.

Helmwyn held him, and stroked his hair, and kissed his eyelids, and tried to soothe him; but she perceived how fretful and grieved he was, and guessed that he would not be able to find sleep that night. She resolved at least not to leave him a prey to his dark thoughts; and so she rose, and put on a robe, and extended a hand to him. “Come, my lord!” she said. “Since you cannot sleep for too much elvishness, let us do as the Elves do. They are so fond of stargazing; well then! let us gaze at the stars, you and I! You shall tell me their dwarven names, and the images they make, in the lore of your people.”

Thorin was amused, if not overly enthusiastic; but he welcomed the distraction, for he too knew that he would not find rest if he merely stayed in bed, seething. So he rose, and together they carried a slender daybed out onto the terrace; and Thorin cursed the delicate frame of the thing, fine and curving as a swan’s neck, for he very much doubted it would carry his weight, let alone the weight of them both. Thorin lay down upon it cautiously, and Helmwyn curled beside him, and threw a silken quilted blanket over them; and they looked up at the stars together. The clouds and drizzle of the day had quite faded, and the dome of the sky seemed vast, and serene, and immeasurably deep.

“Here is Mahal’s Hammer,” said Thorin, pointing at one constellation.

“Ha! That is the one my folk call the Stallion!” said Helmwyn delightedly.

Thorin smiled. “And this one is the Anvil…that one the Bellows,” he went on; and Helmwyn tried to see the shape of those dwarven things in the stars. “That one is the Dragon…” said Thorin, his voice trailing away wistfully. But then he said: “And look, my lady, over there, the seven stars; do you see them? That is Durin’s Crown.”

They gazed on Durin’s Crown for a while; but for Thorin the sight was bittersweet. “And what do you call the Warrior, with his shining belt?” Helmwyn asked, to distract him from his melancholy thoughts.

“That is the Great Smith, Mahal himself, with his belt of strength,” answered Thorin; and Helmwyn laid her head on Thorin’s shoulder, and felt his voice resonate deep inside his broad chest.

“And did Mahal make the stars?” she asked.

“We tell our children that Mahal the Maker fashioned the stars from gems, and hung them up upon the vault of the sky,” Thorin said, gently twining his fingers in his lady’s hair; “and we tell them that the sky is the roof of a great cave. Of course, we have all heard the elvish nonsense about trees and lamps and ships; but in truth, in his heart every Dwarf believes the tale of the cave. For it was Mahal who created the jewels of the earth, and the stones, and the precious ores; and it stands to reason that as things are below, so must they be above, does it not?”

Helmwyn smiled. The cosmogony of the Mark, inasmuch as there was one, tended to involve horses. “Well, my lord,” she said, “it certainly sounds more sensible than the tales we have, of Béma the Hunter riding through the sky on the wings of the storm!”

“Flying horses?” asked Thorin in disbelief. “Is that really what your people believe?”

“Not with any great conviction,” answered Helmwyn with a grin; “though it seems each people seek to explain the world by looking at what is closest to them.” And then, tenderly, she told him: “But the tale of Mahal is very beautiful, my lord.”

The sea-air was mild, and the sound of the waves lulled them; and they fell asleep under the stars, nestled in each other’s arms.

They were woken at dawn by the crying of the gulls. Rosy clouds dappled the sky above; but the sun did not yet touch the sheltered bay, and the air had grown chill. Helmwyn shivered, and Thorin tried to carry her inside without waking her more. Of course this woke her up altogether; but she laughed, and rejoiced in Thorin’s strength. He carried her to the bed, with its silken canopy, and they made love; and as she rode him, Thorin thought how much at odds she was with the ethereal elven surroundings – his shieldmaiden. He thought of how painfully mortal she looked, how unlike the bland and untroubled perfection of the Elves; how much more beautiful, and how much more alive.

And afterwards, as he drifted off to sleep again, Thorin half-dreamt that he stood before Mandos, holding up a piece of parchment, trying to convince the great, silent figure that Helmwyn was technically a Dwarf, and would he please let him see her. Thorin remembered thinking that the Lord of the Dead seemed utterly unmoved by his feeble little document.


	58. Chapter 57

**A/N:** _More elven silliness this week, boys and girls. Thorin has yet to plumb the ghastly depths of the elven picnic._

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 57**

 

Thorin stirred, and stretched his limbs, and growled contentedly. For all that the bed was too soft and the seabirds outside too noisy, he was in a pleasant mood. A fair morning was rising, and the Sea glittered like quicksilver in the bay, and the chamber was filled with light. Thorin turned to his wife, who lay beside him, nuzzling his left shoulder. She was wide awake, and gazed at him intently with her earnest grey eyes.

Thorin smiled. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Studying you,” she replied, and planted a kiss on his shoulder. “I still have not fathomed what those runes mean,” she said, tracing the jagged lines inked into his skin.

“Have I never told you? But surely you have enough Khuzdul by now to read them,” he teased her.

“Aye, that I do. But I am none the wiser for it. _‘Urs abanaz_ ,” she read. “Fire from stone.” She hesitated, not wanting to upset him. “Is it to do with dragonfire?”

“Nay, my lady, it is not,” said Thorin, rolling over and gathering her to him. Somehow, on this fair morning, the past seemed less dark; and he smoothed her hair behind her ear and told her. “It is the fire in the hearts of Dwarves. The fire of life that was given to us by Mahal the Creator. The embers are but smouldering, but they shall not go out. They shall be fanned into life again, and our enemies shall feel the wrath of Durin’s folk!” He kissed her nose. “And there is a dwarven battle-cry, my lady, that strikes dread into the hearts of our foes: _Ikhf’id ursu Khazâd_ ,” he said. “Feel the fire of the Dwarves!”

“ _Ikhf’id ursu Khazâd_ ,” she repeated after him; and Thorin smiled again, delighted by her Rohirric accent.

“Aye. The Orcs have already felt our vengeance; and so shall the Elves, and so shall the dragon. So shall all who stand between the Dwarves and what is rightfully theirs.”

He stroked her chin, and kissed her gently; and Helmwyn marvelled that all this talk of war and vengeance could not darken his tender mood that morning.

***

“Oh dear,” said Helmwyn a little later. The silken drapes hung piteously off the bed’s canopy, ripped beyond repair.

Thorin shrugged. “Elves’ own bloody fault. If they insist on making such flimsy furniture, they shouldn’t complain if it gets broken.”

Helmwyn hoped Círdan would not hear of this until _after_ they had all gathered to discuss trade. She was half-tempted to make a quip about the fire of the Dwarves, but thought it would be disrespectful, and bit her tongue.

***

Overall, the trade talks went well enough, despite the fact that each party thought the other greedy and intractable. At first, the Elves wanted to charge extortionate customs duties; and the Dwarves threatened to pull out of the harbour altogether (though they could hardly afford to do so, as they depended on the elvish market to sell their luxury goods, and going the overland route with glassware was unthinkable).

Thankfully, Balin and Círdan remained level-headed as everybody else’s temper rose; and in the end they succeeded in haggling out a mutually profitable agreement. Furthermore, it was decided that trading-posts should be built at the old settlement on the Tower Hills, which was well-located, and might soon become a bustling market-town, with a little encouragement. Thorin thought uncharitably that if anyone could afford to make concessions and to wait a while to see a return on his investments, it was Círdan, though he did not say it aloud.

To celebrate the happy outcome of the talks, the Master of the Havens invited the dwarven delegation to join him and his court on a sailing tour of the bay. Círdan spoke of this as though there could be no prospect more delightful. The Dwarves were crestfallen, but could not decently refuse.

“Boating for pleasure,” Thorin grumbled as they walked down to the white quay beneath the palace, where three swan-bosomed ships waited. The Dwarves had shed their mail and their armour; they were willing to risk being stabbed by an Elf, rather than being pulled down by the weight of their hauberk should the boat capsize. The latter ghastly possibility seemed all too real.

Dwarves could swim, more or less, since most of them were bound to have spent some time splashing around in mountain lakes when they were dwarflings. And some had ferried goods on trading-barges on shallow waterways. But the Sea was something altogether different. The Sea felt _wrong_. A Dwarf needed to feel solid ground beneath his feet; but what Thorin now felt beneath his feet was the rolling of the ship’s deck, and it filled him with an almost existential sense of unease. He sidled towards the mast, ready to clutch it should the ship pitch suddenly.

The Elves cast off, and unfurled the sails of their ships. The white sails billowed and swelled in the Sea-breeze, and soon the ships sped gladly over the glittering water. Círdan himself was at the helm, and no age seemed to be upon him; but his eyes shone with joy as he leaned on the steering-oar, tall and masterful.

Helmwyn had never been aboard a ship before, until the crossing of the Lune the previous day. It felt a little strange at first, but on second thoughts, it reminded her of nothing so much as riding swiftly through the wide plains of the Mark, with an _éored_ thundering behind her. She took Thorin’s hand in hers. “Come, my lord!” she said. “Let us go and stand at the pointy end, and feel the wind in our hair!” Thorin gritted his teeth, and staggered after her towards the prow. Perhaps this was not such a bad idea, he reflected, gratefully clinging to the rail. At least if he did throw up, he could do so directly into the Sea.

Here the ship pitched more violently, and Thorin’s insides protested. But Helmwyn made him look up from the white foam and the speeding water below, and drew his attention to the mountains. Great peaks reared high all around the bay, some of them still capped with snow, even in summer. Their tree-clad flanks fell abruptly toward the water’s edge; and over the high grey walls of stone there fell many waterfalls, sparkling silver in the sun. There were many small inlets and narrow creeks, with green swards of grass near the water’s edge; and fishing-villages huddled in the shelter of those bays, where the land met the sea.

“Are these mountains not fair, my lord?” called Helmwyn; and Thorin could see that she rejoiced in the sun, and the swiftness, and the sight of the great jagged peaks. The mountains were proud here, more like the White Mountains in the South or the Misty Mountains in the East than the weathered hills in which he had made his halls. But Thorin said nothing; for he thought most of all of the fabled halls of Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol, and of the great convulsion of the world that had drowned the lands, and broken the mountains, and opened up this bay. He wondered gloomily if all the works of his people were doomed to become rubble and ash.

Helmwyn saw that he looked sombre, but thought this was merely on account of the seasickness. She squeezed his hand.

***

They moored in a sheltered creek, where the waves lapped a beach of small pebbles, and a green lawn sloped gently down from the eaves of the wood. The Elves leapt ashore, carrying hampers of food, and spread silken cloths on the grass, and hurried to fetch water from the clear tumbling streams. The Dwarves followed with heavy steps, relieved to feel solid earth under their feet once more. Had it not been for the Elves, they might well have fallen on their knees and kissed the ground.

“My lady,” Thorin groaned, “if this sickness is anything like the wretchedness you felt when you were with child, then you have both pity and honour from me.” Helmwyn smiled wistfully, and led him up the green slope. The Dwarves collapsed gratefully onto the grass, while around them Elves sauntered barefoot among the flowers, and tuned their lutes; and the air soon rang with music and laughter.

The food was even more insulting than the night before, consisting as it did mostly of raw vegetables and fruit; but it so happened that the Dwarves had quite lost their appetite. They appropriated a decanter of wine and a loaf of white bread, and picked at that, hoping to regain a little of their strength.

Helmwyn reclined in the grass, enjoying the warm sun on her face; and Thorin looked down at her, and was acutely reminded of the summer of their first meeting, back in the Mark. He could not show his affection in front of all those people; but Helmwyn shaded her eyes against the sun, and caught him looking, and smiled, and lightly brushed his hand with her fingertips.

Thorin leaned closer to her and said, in a low voice: “Do you know, my lady, if it were not for those damned Elves, we might throw off our clothes, and run over to yonder stream to bathe – what say you?”

Helmwyn laughed brightly at that. “But what about all those bothersome Dwarves, my lord?” she asked. Thorin gave a non-committal shrug, and Helmwyn laughed all the more. They agreed that they would seek out a mountain-stream of their own as soon as they were back home.

***

Helmwyn saw that cakes were being circulated among the Elves, and took it upon herself to go and rescue a few for the dispirited dwarven party. The Dwarves protested that they felt too sick for cake, but she suspected they would change their minds soon enough. A group of Elves had congregated near the cake hamper, seemingly intent on snapping up as much of it as they could. _I bet it never shows_ , she thought darkly.

These Elves reminded her of a gaggle of birds, with their long necks and their soft-coloured silks. She thought they paraded and strutted, not unlike the peacocks and swans with whose images they liked to surround themselves. She walked straight towards them, and elbowed them aside, and seized a plate that she began to pile with cake. She did not much care if this were perceived as rude.

“You are the lady of horses, are you not?” said a bell-like voice, to a chorus of giggles. Oh dear, thought Helmwyn. The elven ladies had decided to take an _interest_ in her.

Helmwyn looked up from her plate to the Elf-women. None of them stood below six foot; and their limbs were impossibly slender and graceful, and their hair was impossibly glossy, and their features were impossibly even, and they almost seemed to _glow_.

“Aye, I am she,” Helmwyn answered. Helmwyn had always been reasonably content with her appearance; but now she felt coarse and clumsy compared to these Elf-women, so sleek and light-footed. Their gracefulness was a perpetual insult.

“How delightful!” said the Elf who first spoke. “And you are wedded to a Dwarf? That is rather… unusual, is it not?”

“Aye, it is,” said Helmwyn. There were more giggles, as though the Elves found her incredibly exotic.

“And did you…wed him out of your own free will?” asked another.

“Aye, that I did. There is great love between us,” said Helmwyn through clenched teeth. The Elf-ladies squealed delightedly.

“But Dwarves are a wild folk, are they not? So tell us…how did you tame that savage Dwarf of yours?”

Helmwyn scowled. “I did not _tame_ him. Thorin Thráinsson is proud and free, and the master of his own destiny.”

“Why then, was it he who tamed you?”

“Wherefore speak you of taming?” Helmwyn snapped. “Is it a habit of the Elves to attempt to subdue their mates? Or do you merely believe it is a custom among _lesser peoples_?”

The elven ladies stared at her wide-eyed, and left her alone after that.

Helmwyn strode briskly back to where the Dwarves sat, and handed them the plate of cakes, saying: “Here, it will do you good;” and she sat down on the grass with them, and on second thoughts, helped herself to one.

“The Elves getting to you yet, lass?” asked Balin jovially.

Helmwyn did not answer, for she had just taken a mouthful of cake; but she rolled her eyes at him, and Balin laughed to see her looking almost as irritated as Thorin.

***

After a little wine and cake, the dwarven party felt strengthened enough to mingle. “Let’s get this over with,” Thorin had said. “Let’s see to it that they are as fed up with us as we are with them. The sooner we get back to the Havens, the sooner we can go to the inn for a proper meal.” The Dwarves mumbled in approval and rose to their feet, and scattered bravely among the groups of Elves. Perhaps there was still some cake to be had.

Helmwyn was milling around among the elven courtiers, trying her best not to get drawn into a conversation with anyone, when she was accosted by an Elf with a wry grin and a sheaf of parchments under his arm. He gave her an extravagant bow.

“Greetings, noble lady. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Aurvandil, and I am a sculptor by trade. If it please you, I should like to offer my services at your lord husband’s court.”

Helmwyn stared at him, amazed by his cheek. “You are a bold one, Master Elf, to offer your talents as a stonecarver in the halls of the Dwarves!”

“But I am, in all modesty, an excellent stonecarver,” Aurvandil replied. “I thought Dwarves valued fine craftsmanship, regardless of the race of the craftsman?”

Helmwyn raised an eyebrow. “And you do not think your style might be a mite too elvish for our taste?”

“I have long worked for the lords of Arnor - when there still was such a thing as the Northern Kingdom. Monuments and tombs and statues, all in the mannish style. So you see - I am quite capable of toning down the elvishness on request.”

“You shall have to tone it down significantly if you ever wish to set foot in my husband’s halls!” said Helmwyn, amused.

Much to Helmwyn’s surprise, the Elf laughed at her barb. “Shall I tell you plainly?” he said. “I am _bored_ , lady. Eternity is a long time, and the gardens and palaces here are already littered with statues and carvings. Do you know, I have quite run out of customers. It is a long time since there was any court to speak of here in the North.” Helmwyn smiled. She found this Elf’s insolence rather refreshing. “Here,” Aurvandil went on, and pressed his portfolio in to her hands. “These are but a few modest sketches; but I hope they shall convince you that I am able to catch a likeness.”

Helmwyn turned over a few pages. The Elf’s drawings were very good indeed. He must have sketched the dwarven party when they sat unsuspecting among themselves; for there were portraits of several Dwarves, of Thorin, and quite a few of herself. Helmwyn was impressed at how well the Elf had captured their various expressions.

She sidled up to Thorin, and rescued him from an unwanted and stilted conversation, and showed him the portfolio. Thorin studied the drawings closely. “These are good likenesses. A little elvish, perhaps; but still.”

Helmwyn smiled. “And what about this one?” she said, and turned over a page to show him a sketch of himself, frowning.

“Hrm,” grumbled Thorin. But then he said: “Please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”

“Nay, of course not,” answered Helmwyn. “But I should like to keep the sketches.” She hesitated for the briefest instant. “When the time comes, I would have you remember me thus, not as an old woman… and least of all as your dwarven stonecarvers would make me!”

“You do not like the work of our dwarven stonecarvers?” Thorin asked in disbelief.

“Oh, but I do,” she teased him. “Their skill in monumental sculpture and geometrical patterns is matchless. But as for their portraits… let us say they lavish all their attention on beards and helmets, leaving what lies between looking a little… generic.”

“I believe Hogni prefers the term ‘idealised’.”

“Be that as it may. I have no beard, and have no wish to be remembered as having one…”

“You _are_ technically a Dwarf, my love,” Thorin pointed out.

“…and as for my face, I have but one, and would have it remembered as it was.”

Thorin hung his head, then gazed up at her with a look so sorrowful it broke her heart. “Let us not speak of this, I beg you,” he whispered.

“Yet one day we must,” she told him in gentle earnest.

Thorin thoughtfully wound a lock of her hair about his fingers, and sighed. “Then let it be as you wish, my lady.”

They spoke in low voices, but Aurvandil who stood nearby could hear them; and he saw their love, and though he found it a little unnatural, yet he was moved by the plight of short-lived peoples. This wasn’t quite Beren and Lúthien, but still, it was sad.

Helmwyn walked back to the Elf and handed him the portfolio again. “You understand we cannot give you a commission at this time,” she told him. “But those are fine sketches, and I would keep them if I may. How much do you want for them?”

“I will not sell them, my lady,” Aurvandil replied, “for draughtsmanship is not my trade. Keep them, and perhaps one day you shall wish to see what I am truly skilled at.”

Helmwyn held the Elf’s gaze, and wondered if he had overheard her conversation with Thorin. “The time may come,” she said. “Of course, you shall still be around, then.”

***

Thorin looked grim as the party stepped back onto the ships at last; but this was not merely on account of the nightmarish prospect of sailing over deep, moving water in a frail elven nutshell.

“Are you all right, laddie?” Balin asked Thorin. “Did that bearded Elf upset you? He had you cornered for a long time.”

Thorin’s jaw was set, and his knuckles were white, and when he found his voice at last, it was tight with barely-contained emotion (though which, Balin could not tell – all of them, probably). “I have no words, Balin,” he said in a trembling voice, “no words to express how much I loathe them, him and all his kind.”

“What happened?”

Thorin gathered his thoughts, and did his best not to shout. “He came at me again with his mealy-mouthed sympathy about Erebor – as if he cared! And then he began telling me about what he was actually doing here. In this harbour. Building ships. Aye, they build trading-ships, and fishing-boats, and they like to sail up and down the bay on sunny days like this; but that is not their purpose. Do you know what the Elves are doing? They are building ships, so that they can leave.”

“Leave?” asked Balin, puzzled. “To go where?”

“West,” said Thorin, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And do you know why? Because they are weary of seeing the world change. The sorrow of the passing of all things is become too great,” said Thorin, in a bitter mockery of Círdan’s tone; “and so they get on their ships and sail to Elvenhome where there is no death and no decay.”

“So they are leaving,” said Balin. “Good. What’s it to us?”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” Thorin growled. “That he should say that to me – to _me_! And he dresses it up in that effete melancholy of his, as though eternal youth were such a trial! And then he put on that insufferably knowing air – which all his lackeys are pleased to call wisdom, no doubt – and do you know what he said to me? He said that _death was Eru’s gift to our races_!” Thorin boomed, with mock portentousness. “Oh aye, what a fine gift it is, to watch your loved ones and yourself wither away within a season! I’ll give him a gift that’ll wipe the smug, condescending smirk off his face!”

Balin tried to steer Thorin towards the railing, so that the others would not overhear his outburst. “Come now, my lad,” said Balin soothingly, patting Thorin on the shoulder.

Thorin leaned on the railing, deflated, his shoulders hunched. “Ever since we’ve been here, all I’ve been able to think about is death, death, death.”

Balin knew this to be an exaggeration (the Dwarves _had_ spent a fair amount of time thinking about food); but he saw how terribly angry and distressed Thorin was, and knew that he was thinking of all the loved ones he had lost, and all those he stood to lose, and made no comment. “Well,” he said instead, “the talks are over, we’ve reached an agreement, we can leave tomorrow as soon as it is light.”

“We’re leaving tonight,” rumbled Thorin. “We’ll stay at the inn and eat meat and drink ale and belch like the coarse mortals that we are. I’ll not stay in that Elf’s house a moment longer than I have to.”

***

And so, as the westering sun gilded the waters of the bay with molten gold, the Dwarves took their leave of Círdan. They had claimed vague but urgent business at home, and Círdan did not press them with questions. Instead he walked down to the landing with them to bid them farewell; and he wished good health, long life and prosperity to his new neighbours. Thorin acknowledged that with a curt nod, and a grunt that could have been interpreted as a farewell. And with that he climbed awkwardly into the boat that was to carry them back across the mouth of the Lune towards the town; and he vowed never again to set foot in a boat if he could help it.

Círdan raised his hand in a last greeting. He had done what he could to reach out to the rash, stubborn Dwarf; but the Dwarf would not hear him. Perhaps, Círdan reflected, he had not found the right words. Short-lived folk were always so touchy. But perhaps he would come to understand in time.

Círdan saw how the Dwarf clutched the hand of his even shorter-lived wife, with equal parts sea-sickness and affection; and as the small boat cast off with the dwarven passengers on board, he shook his head sadly, and turned away, and went back into his house.

***

The Dwarves descended upon the waterside inn, demanding “meat, for pity’s sake! Roast if you have it, stew if not – or ham, or pies, or sausages – whatever you have, as long as there’s MEAT in it!” and mugs of brown ale for all. Fish was not considered an acceptable substitute.

Pies were produced, much to the Dwarves’ delight, along with a variety of cold cuts and cheeses, and mustard and pickles. Thorin felt a wave of relief wash over him. Things were back to normal. A world that involved pickled onions was a world he could deal with. The ale loosened the knots in his tense shoulders.

Apparently, the ale loosened other things too, for the inn’s patrons were singing sailors’ songs, with an enthusiasm that rather made up for their poor sense of pitch. “Nice change from all those elvish bloody madrigals, isn’t it?” called Balin from across the table; and Thorin raised his mug to him.

Thorin was half-expecting the _Iron and stone_ song; and lo and behold, someone started singing of a proud and cold-hearted southern lady, and the others joined in. Thorin listened, smiling, and drank contentedly. But after a while his eyes began to widen, and his ears turned a vivid shade of crimson. He dared not look at Helmwyn, who appeared to be studying her pint with rapt attention. Evidently the bawdy verses about the Lady and the Dwarf had made their way North along the sea-route at last.

The Dwarves around the table all looked at each other sheepishly; but if they were extremely embarrassed, Thorin was mortified. All he wanted was to make a swift exit, to ensure that he and Helmwyn were never, ever identified as the protagonists of the _Iron and stone_ ballad. “Come, my lady,” he whispered to her, “let us escape!”

But then Helmwyn began to laugh nervously, so hard that her eyes streamed and she gasped for breath; and her laughter proved contagious, and spread to the other Dwarves, until they roared in merriment and wiped their eyes. It was not long until the company’s attention was drawn the commotion, and someone pointed at the dour-faced Dwarf-lord and his bright-haired human wife, and said: “’Ere! _He_ ’s the Dwarf-prince who married the southern lady!”

Thorin vainly tried to protest as the company picked him up and carried him in triumph around the room. (1) He ended up having to buy rounds for everyone, and joining the company in a second rendition of _Iron and stone_. Helmwyn delighted to hear him sing it, regardless of the tuneless chorus; and when he was finally allowed to return to his table, shaking slightly, she grinned widely and said: “Well my lord, I daresay this was more fun than an evening at Círdan’s!”

“Aye, that it was,” he said weakly, and ordered something strong to drink. “That was enough fun to last me a lifetime!”

***

A little room was found for them at the dwarven trading-post, as Thorin could not contemplate staying at the inn - not with a crowd of drunkards listening eagerly at the door. The room was sparsely but sturdily furnished; and though the bed was bound to be a little narrow for two (not to mention too short for Helmwyn), they were content to squeeze together for the night. After all, that was hardly an unpleasant prospect.

Thorin lay on the bed, fidgeting and mulling over the day’s events while Helmwyn disrobed.

His brow furrowed. “Do you think them handsome?” he asked at last.

“Whom do you mean?” she said, with her shirt over her head.

“The Elves. Do you think them handsome?”

Helmwyn thought about that. “I think them strange,” she said eventually. “Like those swans and peacocks of theirs; long-necked and glossy and empty-headed. What do you think they _do_ with their time?” she mused aloud.

“Yes, but…you do not think them…beautiful?”

Helmwyn shrugged. “I think you are beautiful.”

Thorin was a little surprised that she should use that word to describe him. “You think me comely?”

Helmwyn sat beside him on the edge of the bed, and smiled. “Aye, that I do. But perhaps I should not have told you. If you knew how handsome you are in my eyes, you might become conceited,” she teased him.

“I am?” Thorin asked with that little-boy look of his. Helmwyn knew well that he was not in the least conceited about his looks (2); and she could see that he needed reassuring. And so she decided to reassure him.

“I love your thick dwarven skull, and your bushy dwarven brows, and your darling dwarven ears,” she said. “I love your great dwarven hands, and your great blacksmith’s arms, and the dark hair on your great blacksmith’s chest,” said she; and she punctuated her itemization with kisses. “I love your broad, powerful back, and your broad, muscular thighs…I love your glorious buttocks,” said she, and took a bite out of same. Thorin yelped.

“I love your exquisite Durin nose,” she went on playfully. “I love your beard. I love your teeth…I love your thick, lustrous hair. I love the scent of you,” she purred, nuzzling the nape of his neck and breathing in deep. “I love your piercing, sorrowful eyes. And I love your voice,” she told him. “There is no music dearer to me in this world than the sound of your beloved voice.” She sat astride him, and looked gravely into his eyes. “It has wound its way about my heart, it has wound its way into my dreams; it has beguiled me utterly.” Thorin was moved by her sudden earnest, and pulled her down into a long, slow kiss.

Helmwyn then proceeded to show Thorin which other features of his broad, dwarven body she was especially fond of, still underlining her point with kisses; and if Thorin had felt somewhat insecure, he did not feel that way for long, and happily gave himself over to his lady’s appreciation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) They did draw the line at tossing him, though. Even a bunch of drunken sailors know better than to toss Thorin Oakenshield.
> 
> (2) Thorin wasn’t vain about his appearance, because he wasn’t exceedingly handsome by dwarven standards. It’s the beard – or lack of it.


	59. Chapter 58

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 58**

 

Thorin found Helmwyn huddling on the floor, in front of the hearth. She had had yet another miscarriage; and though her tears had dried, she sat there hugging her knees and staring into the fire, looking very much like a vulnerable young girl.

“Do you ever regret marrying me?” she asked him matter-of-factly.

Thorin went and sat by her, and touched her cheek. “Never.”

She still stared into the fire; but the tenderness in his voice brought tears to her eyes again; and she began to weep bitterly. “My dear lord…” she sobbed. “I used to fear that my presence would undermine your rule, that the place of your heir in the succession would be questioned…now I fear I shall not be able to provide you with an heir at all, I fear this may be the end of your li-”

Thorin gently placed his thumb on her lips to silence her. “Hush, my lady. Don’t say it.” He traced her beardless jawline, and studied her beloved face. “Think about it. Of all the chances of this world, think how strange a chance it was that we met. Think how strange a chance it was that we lived! It is my belief that Mahal smiles upon us, my lady. And it is my belief that our much-desired wish will be granted, and that our love will be blessed.”

Helmwyn gazed at him, her eyes bright with tears. “You believe this, my lord?”

Thorin had said all these things to soothe her, and to smother his own fears; for in truth he had begun to resign himself to the idea that he might have no issue. But now that he thought about it, he realised that in his heart he did indeed still believe that Mahal would bless them. He smiled at his lady, and nodded slowly.

“What makes you so sure?” she asked.

“You are able to conceive, my love,” said Thorin reassuringly. “You shall yet carry a child to its term.”

But Helmwyn fretted. “Time is short, my lord. I am no longer in my best years. I do not know how much longer I shall be fruitful.”

“Well, how old was your lady aunt when she bore your cousin?”

Helmwyn thought about that. “Older than I am now.” Her aunt Ortrud must have been about thirty-five when she gave birth to Ortlind, if not older. She calmed down a little.

“You see,” said Thorin. “And your folk are strong. The women of your folk are hardy. I have no fear.”

He put his arms around Helmwyn, and she leaned back against his shoulder, and closed her eyes; and she allowed herself to be warmed by the boundless trust she had in him. She was painfully grateful for his steady, steady dwarven heart. She only wished there were something she might _do_.

“My lord,” she said after a while, “if you do have Mahal’s ear…could you ask him to have a word with his wife? I gather she is the one who presides over life, and growing things.”

“Why do you not ask her yourself?”

“I doubt the gods listen to us mere mortals. They only listen to the Elves,” said she bitterly. “But Mahal is different. He has shown great love for his children, if the tales of your folk be true. You talk to him.”

Thorin was not superstitious. He did not wear a Mahal’s Hammer amulet, like many other Dwarves did; he did not trouble the Maker with small requests about this and that. For Thorin knew that Mahal was in the stone and in the dark; he was in the ore and in the gems, and in the fire that melted metal, and in the skill of dwarven hands.

Thorin thought of the words inked on his shoulder. He thought of the fire in the heart of his people.

Thorin felt that Mahal smiled on his children, though he could not shield them form the evils of the world; but that was why he had given them wit and life and skill and strength to endure, that they might defend themselves. And Thorin thought of his love, how it had grown amid the shaping of stone, and the forging of steel; and he remembered the joy with which he had worked on the glowing rods of his lady’s sword. Mahal’s grace and his love for his lady had guided his arm then.

Thorin held his lady closer, and gazed into the flames, and put his trust in Mahal.

***

Autumn drew in, with ripening fruit and russet leaves at first; then the rains came, and the early frosts. Helmwyn did not mind the weather, fair or foul, when she sparred with the men on the training-grounds, or swung her sword alone on the terrace on the mountainside. She loved the scent of pine-forests on the crisp mountain air; and she loved the sight of the foothills stretching out below, hoary with frost. But inside the halls, she was always shivering; and though her heavy robes of wool and fur and velvet helped keep the chill at bay, yet her hands were always cold. Thorin felt it whenever he clasped them; and he saw how pale she had become, and felt a little guilty.

Helmwyn took every opportunity to go out, whether to visit artisans, to oversee fairs and markets, or to go hunting. Thorin did voice some concern; but she laughed, and said that after Wargs, boar were rather restful. And Thorin went with her whenever he could; but more often than not, he could not go, because of his duties, and because she insisted on hunting on horseback, after the fashion of the Mark. But when she returned, her cheeks would be flushed from the cold air and from the hunt, and she smelled of leather, and horse, and the forest in autumn; and Thorin would embrace her, and breathe with relief, and rejoice in her gladness. And their table was well supplied with game.

To her lasting astonishment, Helmwyn found that Thorin’s passion for her did not cool, as it does in Men; it smouldered ever like an ember, and a kiss was enough to fan it into life. And neither had their kisses become perfunctory with time; for they did not squander them on mere greetings, as human couples tend to do after a while, but always preserved them as something precious, and intimate, and very sensual. (1)

Helmwyn liked it best of all when Thorin came in to their chambers after a day’s work in the forge. On such evenings he was weary but contented, for the manual labour always had a calming effect on his mood. He would smile at her, and she would run to him and kiss him, although he was work-stained and covered in grime. He would hesitate to touch her, lest he besmirch her white robe, but she would shed it soon enough, and lead him to the bed, and make love to him with a fierce tenderness. And if afterwards she found that his hands had left sooty marks on her body, she would laugh, and kiss him all the more.

And though Helmwyn was always cold, she always slept naked under the furs and the heavy coverlet; and the heat from Thorin’s powerful body was always enough to keep her warm. She would huddle against him, and wonder whether Dwarves really did have a higher body temperature than Men; and she would lay her hand on his heart, and rub her feet against his, and fall asleep.

Thorin was happy. To be sure, his happiness would have been made complete by the arrival of a child; but he had made his peace with the fact that no child might come. He was happy, though his happiness had a wistful flavour to it; but he watched his wife sleep, and breathed in the scent of her hair, and filled his heart with a peace that was as warm and melancholy as autumn sunlight. Life was as peaceful as he had ever known it; and perhaps that was the very reason he could not quite believe this were real.

Thráin was being unusually affable. He was going through a phase of making chainmail. It was very good mail, though it was utterly useless, as there was no one in the whole of Eriador who could possibly want to purchase dwarven mail. That is to say, the Rangers might want it, but they could not afford it; so the end result was the same. But it kept him busy, and calm, and content. He was laughing again. And Dís was being coolly civil – which, considering the things she _might_ have said concerning Thorin’s bad luck in producing an heir, was a mercy in itself.

The settlement grew. Trade flourished. The people prospered. Thorin was happy.

***

Helmwyn’s dogged work on her Khuzdul began to pay off, and she made some progress; and getting drunk with Dwalin on a regular basis helped her a great deal in getting a feel for the natural _flow_ of the language _._ Soon the artisans and tradesmen learned that the lady understood enough, and could answer any grumbling or rude comment as sharply as the lord Thorin himself might do - though with an accent, and with rather wayward grammar. But what her Khuzdul lacked in grammatical exactitude, she made up for in verve. Khuzdul was a _wonderful_ language for swearing; and Dwalin’s lessons were not wasted on Helmwyn.

But she was by no means at the end of her troubles. At her request, Balin had begun schooling her in dwarven trading law and tax law, because she felt that to be necessary. It was an ordeal. They had tried looking into mining law and inheritance law, but after Helmwyn had actually threatened to throw things, it was agreed that this could wait.

Helmwyn was amused to see that folk began to try and petition her, in the hope that she would put in a good word for them with Thorin, or that she could somehow obtain better trading-terms for them, of influence Thorin’s decision in a process of law. She sometimes smiled politely and said she would see what she could do, if the petitioner had been courteous; more often than not, if the petitioner struck her as wealthy or dishonest or seeking undue privilege, she would tell them coolly to trust in the Prince’s justice. In truth, she was a little peeved that folk assumed she had a trusting mind and a soft heart, and that she would attempt to sway Thorin’s judgment on their behalf. She told Thorin openly of all the favours that had been asked of her, and left him to make up his own mind, and only gave her opinion if he asked her for it. It would never, ever have occurred to her to try and second-guess Thorin in matters of state.

Only once did she plead with Thorin to change his mind.

It was on a day of the autumn fair, and many stalls had been put up in the village; and folk had come from far and wide to market their wares, and to trade, and to buy. The air was already sharp with frost, but the valley was alive with all manner of folk. There was cloth and tools and combs and beads for sale, livestock and fresh produce and pickles and smoked meats; there were carvers and tinkers and farriers and toymakers, there was honey and herbs and sweetmeats and crisp cider from the apple-orchards of the Shire. It was a merry and colourful market; and Helmwyn found it hard to believe that only a few years ago, this place had looked like nothing so much as a quarry.

She was with Gróa and Gerhild, talking to some Halflings selling bales of fine wool, and praising the quality of their ware, when she turned to glance at where Thorin was, and saw that he was engaged in a heated discussion with a group of Men. They were tall, and rather ragged-looking – and armed. Helmwyn tensed at once. Of course, fairs tended to attract their share of unsavoury characters, and this fair was no exception; but Thorin had enough of an entourage to see these brigands off, if that is what they were. But though there seemed to be a strong disagreement, the Men made no threatening gestures; and Thorin obviously refused whatever they had requested of him, and stomped away, frowning, and went into the inn.

Helmwyn made to follow him, to learn what this was all about; but first she took another look at the Men. There was something about them that seemed somehow familiar, though she had never seen their like in these parts before. The Men stood much taller than the local folk, taller even than her Riders; and though they were cloaked in grey, and wore no device, yet they had a soldierly air about them. In fact – now her memory stirred – had she not known better, she would have said these Men reminded her of none so much as of the Rangers of Ithilien, whom the lord Thorondir had sent to the Mark.

The Men stood in a huddle, discussing what to do next; but they seemed resigned, and soon they made to leave again. On a sudden impulse, Helmwyn bade her women wait for her; and she strode after the Men, and called out: “Whither go ye, Dúnedain?”

It was a shot in the dark; but Helmwyn saw the Men halt, and turn.

“Have you had bad luck in haggling with the Dwarves?” she said, walking up to them.

“A man may sooner convince the Sun to change her course form West to East, than buy on credit from a flint-hearted Dwarf!” answered the one who had argued with Thorin.

“Watch your tongue, man. It is my lord and husband of whom you speak.”

The Man gave her a slight bow. “Forgive me, lady,” said he; “I meant no disrespect.”

The Men had grim faces and Sea-grey eyes; and looking upon their garb, Helmwyn saw that it was worn and travel-stained, but of good make; and she saw that the swords they carried were goodly weapons, for all that the scabbards were plain. And Helmwyn saw that their grey cloaks were pinned with brooches in the shape of rayed stars; and then she understood.

“Wherefore do you conceal yourself, Dúnadan?” she asked. “For you are not as you choose to appear.”

She saw a flicker in the tall Man’s eyes when she said the elvish word. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…” he began.

“Come now,” she said. “I have been to Gondor. It is plain that you are kin to the people of the old kings.”

Helmwyn say the Man hesitate for an instant; but then a change came over him. For now it seemed he stood his full height; and his bearing was lordly. “The eyes of the lady of the Mark are not easily deceived,” said he; and now his speech was noble.

Helmwyn smiled. “So you do know who I am.”

“I have been to Rohan. It is plain that you are kin to the Eorlingas, even though you too” – he indicated her dwarven garments – “choose to appear other than what you are.”

Helmwyn laughed. “I do not think I am fooling anybody! But you are, Dúnadan; and folk, looking upon you, merely see a cut-throat and a vagabond.”

The wry smiled faded from the Man’s lips. “Alas, lady. If you know who we are, then surely you know also what we do. And you know that guardianship of the North is ours still, though the wealth and the honours were taken from us long ago.”

“Aye,” said Helmwyn, “I have heard something of the tale of your people; though my knowledge is but little. But tell me: what was it that you wanted from the lord Thorin? For it is plain that you did not come to an agreement.”

The Man gave Helmwyn a searching look, then told her plainly. “Weapons, lady. Swords. Mail. Our swords may once have been proud; but now they are notched, and such armour as we have is dented. We have done what we could to maintain what we have; but there are no better weaponsmiths than the Dwarves, as surely you know, lady. But…” The Man broke off, wondering whether it were wise to speak ill of the Dwarves to her.

Helmwyn raised an eyebrow. “Do go on.”

“…the Dwarves were quite willing to work for us when they lived in exile. A group of them would come and winter in our villages, and we would feed them, and they would mend our weapons and our ploughshares; and so we helped each other. But now…” - the Man gestured towards the façade of Thráin’s halls, with the great axe-bearing statues guarding the door – “now the Dwarves have found a home; and they are become proud again, and will take nothing less than gold and silver in payment of their work.”

Helmwyn looked long at the tall Men with the grey cloaks and the grey eyes. “Why do you require weapons, Dúnadan?” she asked at last.

“Orcs, lady,” the Man said simply.

“There are Orcs in Eriador?” she said, a little too loud.

“There are always Orcs, lady,” answered the Man. “They come down from the Mountains to the North and to the East. Sometimes there are less, and sometimes there are more; but there are always Orcs.”

Helmwyn swallowed. Her throat felt a little dry. “Stay here awhile,” she said. “I will speak with the lord Thorin.”

***

Helmwyn walked thoughtfully back to the _Royal Oak_ with her women. It was warm and merry and noisy inside; for the place was crowded, and a bright blaze danced in the hearth. Some folk conducted business at the tables, others were content merely to drink. She found Thorin talking to a small group of well-dressed Dwarves, including Gróin, the moneychanger, who had set up shop in the inn for the day, and looked extremely pleased with the commissions he was charging. While Gróa undertook to distract her brother, Helmwyn laid a hand on Thorin’s arm, and asked to speak with him away from the others. Thorin was surprised, but let himself be steered a little further away, so that they might talk.

“My lord,” Helmwyn said, “I saw you arguing with those Men outside. Will you not tell me what they wanted?”

“Ha! They wanted _credit_ ,” said Thorin with a snarl, as though there could be no word more base.

She could see that the matter irritated him. Thorin was proud, and the Dúnadan was proud; Helmwyn did not doubt that they had rubbed each other entirely the wrong way. She sighed, and looked gravely at Thorin.

“My lord,” she said, “you know that I have never asked you for any favours; nor have I ever tried to sway your mind in matters of trade. But today I must beg you to listen to what I have to say.”

Thorin gave her a long look. “You would speak on behalf of those vagabonds?”

“I would, my lord. I believe they can be trusted. You may have to wait fifty or even a hundred years for your payment, but they will keep their word.”

“I have no intention of giving away good weapons to those penniless ruffians!” he growled. “What do they want with them, anyway?”

“My lord! Did you not say yourself that it was these folk who hunted down Orcs before they came to trouble these lands?”

“Aye, or so it is said. But to tell the truth, I have trouble believing that. I cannot see why they should take it upon themselves to do that without recompense.”

“Then perhaps you should reward them with arms.”

“We do not ask them to defend us,” said Thorin irritably. “Indeed, what if there are a few Orcs about? I daresay we are quite capable of taking care of them ourselves.”

“The Orcs are north of these lands for now,” said Helmwyn urgently; “but should the Rangers fail, and the Orcs come south, you shall have to risk dwarven lives to keep them at bay. Would you risk more dwarven lives, my lord?”

That gave Thorin pause. He knew that Orc-attacks were bound to prove almost as unpopular with his folk as a request for deferred payment.

He gave his lady a searching look. He sensed that perhaps she secretly wished that he would refuse to help the Rangers, and that the Orcs would come, and that she might take up her sword again and go and hunt them down herself. She did not ask for that; but he saw the tension in her sinews, and the fierce light in her eyes, and he knew how much she missed riding out – not unlike a war-horse, champing at the bit, stamping the ground, eager for battle. And he knew that if he refused to help the Rangers, and if the Orcs did come south, she would ask to go, and he would deny her, and they would argue bitterly. He had no desire to argue with his lady.

Thorin sighed. “You say I should trust them. But what guarantee have I that they will keep their part of the bargain? What do I tell our smiths and armourers? That they will have to take it on trust that their money will be paid a decade or more from now?”

Helmwyn tried to remember all she knew about the Dúnedain – what she had read in her books; and something that foppish Elf at the Havens had said about the vanished northern kingdom. “My lord…,” she said cautiously, “if that Ranger is who I think he is…then he too is a king in exile.”

Those words chilled Thorin; and he remembered. Dwarves never expected to get something for nothing, for that was not in their culture. But he remembered how hard it had been, merely to be given a chance to perform honest labour for his keep. He remembered how his people had scrimped and saved, merely to acquire enough iron to arm themselves against the Orcs. He remembered the suspicious looks folk had given him wherever he went.

Thorin hung his head. “Strange are the chances of this world,” he said at last.

***

Thorin followed Helmwyn outside; and at length he and the Ranger reached a grudging agreement. Helmwyn stood modestly by as the Ranger swore an oath to repay the Dwarves in time; and Thorin had to make do with that, as the terms of the bargain were too vague to be written down. Thorin did not like it. “If I am to have no more than your oath,” he growled, “at least give me your true name!”

“I am called Arathorn, son of Arassuil. At your service.”

“And at your familiy’s,” rumbled Thorin with a curt nod.

But Helmwyn gave the tall Man a slight bow, and said: “Farewell – my lord.”

The Ranger gave her a wry smile. “Maybe you discern, from afar, the air of Númenor,” said he; and with that he turned on his heels, and left with his companions. (2)

Thorin was peeved. It seemed to him that the tall dark stranger’s demeanour had been altogether too familiar, if not downright flirtatious; and he shot Helmwyn a look, and was tempted to ask her whether she welcomed such insolence. But Thorin saw that she wore that little frown she always had when she was concerned, and held his peace.

Helmwyn shook her head sadly, and together they walked slowly back towards the inn. “These poor people,” she said, “scratching together a living on the edge of Wilderland, the first line of defence against the Orcs, unthanked and unblessed…and other folk look upon them with suspicion. What a life. What a way to bring up children.”

“It was not so very different for us,” said Thorin.

“I know,” she said, and slipped her hand in his.

They walked in silence for a while. “Your people did not exactly have an easy time of it, either,” said Thorin after a pause.

“Nay, that we did not. But thankfully we had your help,” said she.

Thorin laughed brightly. “Aye! And we were handsomely rewarded for that,” he said, and gave her hand a squeeze.

There was another lull. “Are those really the most generous terms you could give them?” asked Helmwyn innocently.

“But, my lady, I am giving them _extremely_ generous terms!” answered Thorin. “I am not charging them interest. Besides,” he added, “we currently have more chainmail than we know what to do with. I am not displeased that someone is willing to take it off our hands.”

Helmwyn shook her head again; but now it was with mirth at the hard-headed business sense of the Dwarves.

***

Thorin was in a glad mood that morning, and hummed contentedly as he stood before the mirror, stripped to the waist, and trimmed his beard. Helmwyn lingered in bed, nestled among the furs, and watched him delightedly. “Why is it that you alone wear your beard short, my lord?” she asked him.

“Aah. That, my lady, was a gesture of mourning. I did not have much of a beard when the dragon came, you understand; I was only a youngster. But what I had, I cut off, out of respect for the elders whose beards had been singed, and to honour those that had died. And then I had this done,” he said, indicating the tattoo on his shoulder; “but, well…it never seemed right to let it grow again. And then there was the war, and there were more dead to honour…” He trailed off.

He gave a last, melancholy glance to his reflection, then put down his comb and his little shears, and walked back towards the bed. “Perhaps,” he added with a smile, “it is also that I was never sufficiently interested in the lasses. Otherwise I might have grown out my beard, and worn it braided and beaded, as our dashing young lads do.” He came and sat on the bed beside her. “How would you have liked that?”

Helmwyn tried to picture Thorin with the sort of great, elaborately styled beard some of the other Dwarves wore. She laughed brightly. “Luckily I was able to look past the beard and to see your inner beauty, my lord!” she teased him.

Thorin framed her face in his hands, and head-butted her gently. “Do you know,” he told her, “that I sometimes toy with the idea of growing it out? After all, we have made a new home now…” Helmwyn looked at him. She was moved by his words; though in truth, she much preferred him as he was, and had no wish to see him sport a beard one might hide a goat in. “But nay,” he said at last. “I hold it almost a vow. When the Mountain is ours again, _then_ shall I grow a proper beard.”

Helmwyn gently raked her fingers through Thorin’s freshly-trimmed beard, and gazed long upon his face, and the wistful smile that played upon his lips. “Do you ever think of retaking the mountain, my lord?” she asked him.

“Aye, I do,” he said. “I think about it often. And one day I will attempt it; but not now, not yet. My people will need a while yet until they are strong enough. Besides,” he added with a wry smile, “I know how you would fret.”

“Fret?” said Helmwyn with mock indignation. “I would not stay at home and fret, my lord. I would go with you.”

“And I would not let you,” Thorin said playfully, to provoke her.

“And I would follow you all the same,” answered she, with that stubborn little frown of hers.

“You would disguise yourself…,” he said, grinning.

“Aye. I would cut off my hair and wear it for a beard.”

Thorin laughed. “And no-one would recognize you.”

“Indeed they would not,” said Helmwyn; “for I would wear one of those helms your people have, with the mask.”

“And I, suspecting nothing, would become friendly with that tall lad with the silky beard and the youthful voice…”

“Aye,” she purred; “and in the evenings, by the campfire, you would tell him how much you missed your wife…”

Thorin kissed her. “Of course,” he went on, “you would save my life on countless occasions…”

“…But one day, inevitably, my disguise would fail…”

“And I would try to be angry with you, but I could not, so glad would I be to see you. Especially with a beard.”

Thorin pounced on her, and attempted to tickle her with his beard. An amorous scuffle ensued. Helmwyn shrieked with laughter, but then retaliated by targeting the armpits, as was her habit. “Helmwyn! Helmwyn, stop it!” cried Thorin, gasping for breath. She relented, and curled against him, giving his armpit a last affectionate nuzzle.

“And then,” Helmwyn resumed, “when we had made love, let me see…”

“…a number of times…,” Thorin supplied. He looked adorably tousled.

“…away from the company…”

“…aye, away from the company…”

“…would we go and retake the Mountain?”

Thorin did not answer at first, but looked long at her; and then he said: “Nay. We would go home, and have supper – and maybe a bath – and we would go to bed, and wake up to our ordinary life in the Blue Mountains.”

“How unadventurous of you,” she teased him.

“I care not. I would rather have you than all the gold in Erebor.” Helmwyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh, very well,” he laughed. “I would have you AND all the gold in Erebor.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” she said.

But Thorin shook his head gently. “There shall be time enough for that.” And though he did not say it aloud, she knew that the unspoken part of that sentence was: _when you are dead_. Thorin stroked his wife’s hair, and kissed her brow, and held her close. “The Mountain is not going anywhere,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Despite several years together with a human woman, Thorin still thought of kissing something inherently sexual. This was a dwarven cultural thing. Helmwyn did not complain, on the contrary.
> 
> (2) This would be Arathorn I (2693-2848). Not you-know-who-s dad; the other one.


	60. Chapter 59

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 59**

Helmwyn was pregnant again. The leech and the midwife urged caution, as they always did; and so Helmwyn obediently hung up her sword and put up her feet and spent her days in sullen idleness. She resented being thus confined, not least because she had always remained as good as bedridden during her previous pregnancies, and that had not prevented them from ending as they invariably did – and as this one doubtless would, too.

Thorin was as loving and attentive as he ever was in such circumstances; though by now he had learnt not to hope for anything but the usual outcome. They did not speak of it, but there it was, beneath their smiles and their tender gestures towards each other: the certainty that this pregnancy would end much like the others had.

No official announcement was made, for there was no sense in raising the people’s expectations only to dash them again a few weeks later. Word of the lady’s condition got around anyway, since she would vanish from public life for a while. And the elders no longer even bothered to bemoan the Prince’s unfortunate match, and the weakening of the bloodline; they merely shook their heads, and muttered to each other that this way was likely for the best.

Thus, when Helmwyn was well past three months pregnant, and the curve of her belly began to show, and she no longer felt so wretched, Thorin began to hope against hope, for it looked as though she might keep the child after all. Neither the leech nor the midwife could or would say so with any degree of certainty; but they cautiously agreed that ‘the most dangerous time was now past.’ And each new day that the child lived and grew, Thorin smiled more brightly, and his heart swelled with joy once more.

He would return to his chambers during the day, several times if he was able, to keep Helmwyn company, to talk with her, to keep her apprised of the settlement’s affairs. Helmwyn felt heartier than she had in months, and welcomed such news; and Balin and Gróa talked to her too. Eventually they reached a point where informal council meetings were held in Helmwyn’s sunlit chamber, with Thorin and his closest advisors perched on chairs that had been brought into the room, and Helmwyn herself on the daybed, “lounging around like some elven lady in her bower,” as she put it, and laughed. Of course, some indignant elders grumbled that things were being decided behind their back; to which Helmwyn replied that they were most welcome to attend the meetings in her chamber, provided that they arranged for more chairs to be brought.

***

After the advisors had left, Thorin and Helmwyn were left alone; and he went to her, and sat beside her, and helped her unclasp the heavy collar with the starry jewel. She ever wore it at such meetings, lest folk forget her status, seeing her thus bed-bound and weakened. She fingered the gem thoughtfully, gazing at the six-rayed star imprisoned in the blue stone.

“Tell me again, my lord,” she said. “Tell me of Father Durin, and the stars he saw in the deep.”

Thorin smiled, and put an arm around her, and began to sing quietly to her of the Father of his line, how he woke in the dark, and walked out from beneath the stone to find the young, silent world stretching out beneath him, waiting to be named. He sang of snowy peaks and hushed vales, of bright mountain-streams and secret caves; and he sang of a still blue lake between the arms of the mountains: and therein did Durin gaze, and saw himself crowned with stars. Helmwyn rested her hand on Thorin’s heart, and felt his deep voice resonate in his great chest; and she looked into his clear blue eyes, clearer than any mountain-lake, and thought how much she loved her Dwarf.

“And you, my lord?” she asked when he had finished. “Did you ever gaze into Mirrormere?”

Thorin was silent for a moment; but then he answered: “Aye, my lady. I have stood by Durin’s stone, and looked into the dark waters of Kheled-zâram.” But his eyes had clouded over; and Helmwyn saw that the memory was mixed with grief. She regretted asking; but Thorin was now toying with the jewel in her hands, looking at it intently, though in truth he did not need to look upon it to remember that day, for the memories of it were still vivid in his mind’s eye.

“It was after the battle of Azanulbizar,” Thorin said; and it seemed that his voice too had clouded over. “Those of us who survived laboured several days to tend the dead. We separated them from those foul Orcs, and we stripped them of arms and armour, so that naught would be left for any remaining foes to plunder. We used our battle-axes to cut down the great trees that grew in the vale, and we hauled them, and built the pyres…” 

Thorin had a faraway look. “My brother does not lie under stone, my lady, as is our custom,” he said; “his body was burned, along with many of our folk.” There had been no other way. There had been so many. Thorin reflected that the stench of the battlefield might have been far worse, for it had been winter; but still he remembered – fresh-cut pine, and the metallic tang of blood, and the sickly-sweet odour of decay; and then, the thick smoke of the pyres, billowing from the mountainside and darkening the sky.

“The bonfires of our people had been lit,” he said, “and the smoke of them hung heavy over the dale; and our kin from the other Houses left, and scattered, and went back to their distant homes. And it had become plain that we would not retake Khazad-Dum; and our revenge, and the victory we had gained, tasted as bitter as defeat. And on that day, my father took me down to Kheled-zâram, to look into the water. His face was grim, and he did not speak; but I knew whither he was leading me, for Dwarves sing of that place, and carve its likeness into many works of metal and stone. We stood by the pillar, long weathered and broken; and my father did not look, but he gestured to me to go forward. I, who had won great renown; I, who had rallied our folk in the face of terrible odds; I – his only surviving son.”

He fell silent; and it seemed to Helmwyn that his great shoulders were bowed with care. She touched his hand gently. “Did you see aught?” she asked him.

Thorin emerged from his memories, and sighed. “In truth, I do not know what I saw,” answered he; and he would say no more. But he remembered.

The sky that day had been dim, on account the fires and the smoke and the cold winter light; but the waters of the lake had been dark and still and fathomless. And indeed it had seemed to him that jewels shone in its blue depths, as though it mirrored the starry sky; but there were no stars. And above the faceless shadow that had been his reflection, Thorin had indeed seen a crown of phantom stars flower in the deep water; and then he had known. _You are the heir of Durin. You must avenge your folk. You must reclaim the Mountain_.

Thorin tore his gaze away from the stone, and looked long into his lady’s eyes. “I held it a glad omen when this gem was found, my lady,” he told her with a slightly forced smile; “for I took it to mean that Durin’s folk wound find respite here, and prosperity, and new strength. I took it to be a glad omen for _us_.” He gently stroked his wife’s smooth, beardless jawline.

Mahal knew that the burden of duty already weighed heavy enough upon his shoulders. But if his folk were to be granted a few years to rest, and heal, and grow strong again, might he not have the same? Was that so very selfish? A few years, that was all he asked. A few years in peace and contentment with his lady, a few years to watch their children grow. And when his line was secure, and his folk were strong once more, he would attempt the deed. But not yet; not yet.

Thorin held his lady closer, and buried his face in her furs; and she cradled his head soothingly. “Forgive me if my questions have saddened you, my love,” she said; “I thought it would be a fine tale to tell the little one. I should have known.”

But Thorin smiled wistfully at that. “Indeed, my lady,” said he, “it will be a very fine tale to tell the little one! For which little prince or princess would not wish to see him- or herself crowned with stars? Aye, we shall tell the little one of Father Durin and the jewelled lake.” He laid his brow against his wife’s. “But I shall say nothing of the battle until he or she is older.” After all, the child would learn all that sad history soon enough.

And Thorin swore to himself that he would not pass on this burden to his heirs. The crown, and the mantle of kingship, aye; but as for the quest to reclaim the Mountain, he swore not to bequeath that curse on his unborn child. He would see to that himself, or die trying.

But not yet; not yet.

***

During the second term of her pregnancy, Helmwyn violently craved two things: apple-cakes, and lovemaking.

Thorin did not mind overmuch, on the contrary. They were fortunate in that their appetites had always been well-matched; but now Thorin was thankful for his lady’s sudden hunger, for his own desire would otherwise have driven him to distraction. His pregnant wife was as tempting as a ripe peach – her soft skin taut over her curves, her firm flesh swollen with sweet juices. Helmwyn was amused by the way Thorin seemed to revel in her new shape. Perhaps he thought it made her look more dwarven. But she cared not, and rejoiced in his desire.

Even so, there were times when Thorin felt a little overwhelmed.

“Durin’s beard, woman!” he would say, when he woke up in the middle of the night to find her chewing on his earlobe. “Do you want to be the death of me?”

“Come now, Thorin Thráinsson,” she would breathe into his ear, whilst she raked her fingers through the hairs on his broad chest. “Surely the legendary Oakenshield will not be defeated by a pregnant woman?”

“Not just any woman,” said he, as she trailed her fingertips down the line of hairs that ran across his navel, and beyond. “A daughter of the House of Éorl.”

“Aye,” purred Helmwyn. “I am a shieldmaiden, and my hand is ungentle.” Thorin gasped.

He did not take much persuading. “Come here, woman of Rohan!” he growled, and pulled her to him. And when they broke apart at last, spent and drenched in sweat, Thorin grabbed a fistful of her hair, and kissed her hard. “Sweet Mahal,” he panted. “And now – let me sleep!”

He rolled over, and dozed off; and Helmwyn contentedly nuzzled the nape of his neck, and listened to his gentle snoring. But Thorin could have sworn that not half an hour had passed before he felt her fingers tracing the hollow of his spine, and the little patch of hair in the small of his back, and the dimples above his glorious backside.

Thorin groaned.

***

As Helmwyn felt better, she became restless, and desired to walk abroad again. This filled Thorin with vague but terrible fears. He feared for her health, but also for her safety.

“Even now?” Helmwyn asked, a little testily.

“Especially now,” Thorin answered. “All it would take is for someone to trip you up. Or push you down the stairs. Are you willing to risk it? Because I am not!”

Helmwyn hoped gloomily that the child would not take after Thorin in everything. If its head were as thick as his, she thought, then she would truly have a wretched time of it, starting with the birth. But she did not argue, for she knew that his fears were not unjustified, and she would risk no harm to the child.

But Thorin saw how his lady fretted in her bower, and felt caged, and longed for the world outside; and eventually he relented. And so she was seen around the settlement again, greeting artisans and tradesmen, visiting the markets, receiving officials, showing herself on feast days – all under heavy guard. And in truth the folk of the Blue Mountains, Men and Dwarves all, were glad to see her, for she was radiant, and smiled, and rejoiced to be out and about again under the glad sun. But it was never long until her back began to ache, and she felt weary, and returned to her chambers sooner than she would have liked.

“Do you know what I should dearly like, my lord?” she would tell Thorin upon her return. “I should like to go for a ride!”

Thorin blanched.

“Do not look so put out, my love – I spoke in jest!” said she, laughing, and kissed him on the nose.

***

Thorin was perpetually breathing down the necks of Helmwyn’s escort, especially Dwalin and Gróa, that they would not leave the lady out of their sight for an instant when she was out and about. She was invariably surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers, and that made Thorin nervous.

“I don’t trust them,” he rumbled. “And for goodness’ sake, try to stop her from eating everything folk give her – at least until it’s been tasted!”

“You want me to try and prevent a pregnant woman from eating cake?” Dwalin asked; but Thorin’s thunderous expression told him that he was in no mood for jests. “Well…do you want _me_ to taste the stuff?” Thorin stared at Dwalin. “I don’t mind, really!” said the great scarred warrior. Thorin sighed; and Gróa laughed.

“Listen, cousin,” Gróa said. “I can understand your nerves are frayed, but I honestly think you’re overdoing it a little. Your wife is well-loved among the common folk. Everyone is eagerly awaiting the birth of your heir.”

“Gróa…” answered Thorin, “I know you are probably right, but…just humour me. Please. We have waited too long for this child, and I would not take any chances.”

Gróa gave her kinsman a long look; and she saw that, for all his peevish mistrust, he was a worried young father, and she pitied him. “Very well, cousin,” she said; “if it helps ease your mind…we shall do as you ask. Won’t we, Dwalin?”

Dwalin was looking forward to intercepting the apple-cakes and other gifts of food, and nodded eagerly.

***

During the third term of Helmwyn’s pregnancy, there was no more talk of her walking about. Her body felt awkward, and her pretty ankles were swollen, and she spent all her time with her feet up; but neither did she get much rest, for she slept badly. She could never find a comfortable position to sleep in, and the child was becoming restless, especially at night. Helmwyn was exhausted, and felt confined; and she hoped fervently that her pregnancy would not have a fourth term, as was usual with Dwarves. “I already feel like an Oliphaunt,” she complained to Thorin. “If this goes on for much longer, I shall burst.”

But Thorin was patient with her ill-humour, and visited her often in the daytime, while she rested; and Helmwyn could see how excited he was at the prospect of becoming a father, and his enthusiasm was infectious. She could well imagine him, so dour and so grim, rolling around on the rug with their child, laughing, much like an overgrown dwarfling himself; and she smiled. But for now, he had to content himself with laying his head on her breast, stroking her belly while she stroked his hair.

The child was kicking as though he or she were fighting off imaginary Orcs. Thorin laughed. “He shall be a tall and fierce golden-haired warrior!” said he proudly.

Helmwyn raised an eyebrow. “And what if it is a girl?”

“Then she shall be a tall and fierce golden-haired warrior!” answered Thorin, beaming.

Helmwyn laughed brightly – then winced, as the child kicked her again. “It seems like little Thorin in there will be ready to begin training with Dwalin the moment he or she is born,” she grumbled good-naturedly.

“Hush, little one!” Thorin said against her belly. “Do not hurt your mother so!” He began humming a dwarven song, and went on gently stroking Helmwyn’s belly; and indeed his hand and his deep voice seemed to have a soothing effect on the child. It appeared to calm down; and Helmwyn purred with relief.

“I wish you could go on doing that all night, my love,” she said, twining her fingers in Thorin’s great dark mane. The child was always especially exuberant at night, and then she would have to get up and walk around the chamber, humming, until it quietened down again.

“What shall we call him or her?” she asked after a while.

Thorin hesitated. “You mean the outer name?”

“I shall leave the secret name up to you,” said she. Thorin gave her a grateful look. It occurred to Helmwyn that she did not know his true dwarven name. She smiled, and stroked his beard. “Let me think.” Not one of those ridiculous monosyllabic dwarven names, she thought. And nothing in ‘–i’. “Something that closely resembles Thorin,” she said at last. “I love your name.”

“Would that not be a little…vain?”

“Well, we can hardly call the Heir of Durin Fréamund, now, can we. Besides, I have become so used to calling him or her ‘little Thorin’ by now…”

Thorin thought about it. “Thordís if it is a girl and Thordur if it is a boy?”

Helmwyn said the names a few times, and grinned. “Done,” she said, and pulled him to her for a kiss.

***

Thorin had been called down to the settlement on a matter of some urgency. He was only told that the situation was delicate, and required the utmost discretion; and so he took Balin and Dwalin with him, and together they went down into the village, trying to avoid any unnecessary attention. They were led into the brewery adjacent to the _Royal Oak_ , and at once they understood why the matter was so sensitive.

Thráin had got it into his head that the best way of celebrating the forthcoming birth of his grandchild was to go down and sample the ale Sverri was brewing up for the occasion. And he had decided that the best way to sample it was by total immersion.

The Dwarf King was bobbing happily in one of the great casks, stark naked, crowned with froth and roaring drinking-songs at the top of is voice. Thorin stared in dismay, while Balin hid his face in his hands.

“That’s my brew ruined!” cried Sverri, while Thorin and Balin tried to persuade Thráin to come out of his barrel.

Dwalin considered that. “Well…old Thráin might have added a bit of flavour, but it’s not necessarily ruined as such.”

“Look,” said Sverri, “even if we filter out the hairs, there’s no telling what else he’s been doing in there, besides swimming! Would you drink that?”

“Can’t you serve it to the tourists?” Dwalin asked, a practical Dwarf. “You could call it the Royal Brew, or something.”

“I have a reputation to maintain, mister!”

Thorin paid Sverri enough coins to compensate him for the loss of his brew; then, having dressed Thráin as best they could, they steered the cheerfully singing King back to his halls. Thorin hoped gloomily that no-one would notice the smell of ale; or if they did, that they would put it down to a merry visit to the inn, in anticipation of the happy event, and no more.

***

When Thorin came back to his chambers at last, he found Helmwyn sitting up on her daybed, propped up on cushions. She had been trying to read, but the child had stirred again; and so she had given up on her reading, and stroked her belly while quietly singing _The Linden Tree_ , to soothe the restless little one. Thorin stood in the doorway for a while, watching her profile in the firelight; then he walked over to her, dislodged the cushions, and sat behind her. “I think little Thorin is asleep,” she whispered; and he put his arms around her, and she leaned back against him. He kissed her tender throat.

“My lady…I know how much you dislike being pregnant,” Thorin told her; “and I am deeply grateful that you are willing to go through this for my sake.”

“I love you,” she said simply. And then, with an amused smile: “You smell of ale,” said she, but not chidingly.

“I am sorry,” Thorin said. “Things got a little lively down at the inn; some ale may have splashed on my clothes,” he lied, not wanting to dwell on his father’s madness.

“How I envy you,” said Helmwyn. “The first thing I shall do after the child is born is have a pint of brown ale. How I have missed it! They say it is good for breastfeeding.”

“Is that so?” asked Thorin.

“So they say.”

Thorin gently caressed her taut little breasts and the swell of her belly; and the two of them – the three of them – shared a moment of perfect warmth and love and trust.


	61. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes indeedy, boys and girls, it has been ONE WHOLE YEAR since I started publishing this story! To celebrate, here's a nice big two-for-the-price-of-one chapter.

THE LINDEN TREE

Chapter 60

 

"Well, ladies!" called Thorin cheerfully as he strode into the sunlit chamber. "What great things have you achieved this morning?"

"Oh, the usual," said Helmwyn form the daybed. "Gróa has been reading me trade reports…"

"…and Helmwyn has been dictating rude letters to suppliers," Gróa finished.

"Not too rude, I trust?" said Thorin with a smile, and went to perch beside Helmwyn on the edge of the daybed. She tried to make room for him, and failed.

"Have no fear, my lord; Gróa takes it upon herself to tone things down."

Thorin was not much of a one for public displays of affection; but he did allow himself to headbutt his wife gently. After all, Gróa was family. "This is only a brief visit, my lady; I must go down to the glassworks. Is there anything that you need?"

Helmwyn shook her head. "I am well, my lord. The only thing I currently want is to give birth and be done!" She tried to sit up a little. It was an awkward process. Thorin rearranged her cushions. "Do you know," she told him, "if you are going to be gone all afternoon, I might go and visit Gróa's sister-in-law and her nephews." Thorin paled. "To observe dwarflings in their natural environment, as it were, and hear Eir's birthing tales."

"No!" said Thorin rather too loudly. Then, more quietly: "Er…I mean, I had rather you did not over-exert yourself, my love."

Helmwyn and Gróa burst out laughing. "You can say it, cousin!" said Gróa. "I won't be offended. My nephews are an accident waiting to happen!"

"Ah, forgive me, my lord," said Helmwyn; "I was only teasing you." She playfully wound one of Thorin's braids around her finger. "In any case, I can hardly move. How should I walk down to Eir's?"

Thorin breathed a sigh of relief. "Ahaha. Of course. Well, I shall be back this evening. Take care of yourself," he told his wife; but she held him fast by his braid and pulled him into a kiss. Thorin blushed because Gróa was there; and Gróa grinned to see her kinsman looking so uncomfortable.

"Until tonight, my love," Helmwyn said with a smile, and released him.

"Ladies," said Thorin, nodding to both of them, and ducked out of the room while the women giggled.

***

It was Gróa who came looking for him. She had wasted time in finding him, for it was a rainy day, and it was dark under the firs, and she took wrong paths and had to turn her pony around several times. When she reached the glassworks at last, she was drenched and out of breath; but the sight of her was enough to tell Thorin that it had begun. He ran out of the hut, leapt onto his pony, and rode for the Halls so fast that Gróa was barely able to keep up with him.

He could hear the screams from the end of the hallway. The leech had told him that this was entirely normal, and Thorin thought that Helmwyn must currently be cursing him to the darkest pit of Gundabad for putting her through this. He saw her women milling about the corridor; he passed Gerhild carrying a bowl of water red with blood, and Brynja hurried past him bearing clean cloths. He told himself that this too was entirely normal. But the women looked pale and drawn, and shot him worried looks. Thorin began to panic.

He ran through the study and into his chamber, and could not quite comprehend what was going on. He had never expected to see that much blood anywhere besides on a battlefield. Women stood around weeping, and the leech stood around looking helpless, his hands bloodied up to the elbows. Thorin saw the midwife wrapping something in a sheet. She met his eye, and shook her head sadly.

Thorin stepped forward in a daze, and pushed the leech and the women aside, and sat by his wife, and wiped a strand of hair away from her pale, clammy brow. He tried not to look down at her body, torn open, or at the widening pool of blood.

Helmwyn's eyelids fluttered open. "There you are," she said weakly, and sought his hand. "The child?" she asked.

"He is well," Thorin lied.

Helmwyn smiled. "We always knew I would be leaving before you, my love - though perhaps not so soon. But I shall wait for you; and may you keep me waiting long this time!"

Thorin gathered her up into his arms, and wept, and tried to deny; but she kissed his eyes and his lips and silenced him. But she was faint, and he called to her; and she came to again, and with the last of her strength she stroked his beard, and huddled against him. "I am cold, my love; hold me," she whispered. "Thorin…"

He held her head like a child's, and rested his brow against her cold brow, and cradled her as her precious life ebbed away. He waited anxiously for each faint heartbeat, for each shallow breath; but in the end he could not be sure of the precise moment when she died, for she faded away so quietly. He only knew for certain some minutes later that she was gone. Her arms hung limp, and he called her name in vain; and he buried his face in her hair, and sobbed bitterly.

For a long time, he would not let go of her; and when at last they came to take her away, he roared like a wounded beast, and it took all of six Dwarves, including Dwalin, to wrench him away from her body.

***

They buried her in a stone sarcophagus; and beside her they laid her unnamed son, and bonny little dwarfling with a shock of fair hair and golden down on his cheeks. The child they had wrapped in a cloth shot with gold thread; but Helmwyn they had clad in her heavy embroidered mantle from the Mark. Her body had changed too much for them to bury her in her amour. They had placed the starry jewel at her throat, and the sword Fearless upon her breast; and in her cold hand, Thorin had closed the little silver Dwarf he had once made for her.

Dís stood beside her brother, and slipped her hand in his, and gave it a timid squeeze. "She looks queenly," Dís said gently.

"She looks dead," replied Thorin tonelessly, and stared unseeing before him.

He could not bear to look at her. He could not bear to look at either of them. When they had prepared her body, and dressed it in her finery, and laid it out, and let him in to see her at last, he had hoped to lay his brow on hers one last time, or to do whatever folk do when the time comes to say farewell; but he had been unable to do even that.

It was not her. It was no longer her. The body had been hers, but now life had fled from it; its skin had taken on a waxy pallor, and its eyes were sunken, and its cheeks had gone slack, and its lips were stretched tight over its teeth. For all the richly embroidered velvet, and for all that her rippling hair had been laid out on her shoulders, this was a corpse. Thorin had turned away in dismay.

They set the lid on the leaden casket, then heaved a blank stone slab onto the sarcophagus. It read:

HELMWYN

DAUGHTER OF BRYTTA

WIFE OF THORIN OAKENSHIELD

AND

THEIR INFANT SON

Thorin walked heavily out of the crypt. He did not meet anyone's eye; and he uttered not another word, but went and shut himself away.

***

Dwalin had wept when he had heard, because he had been fond of Helmwyn, and not least because he knew Thorin would be devastated. But now he stood by the tomb, paying his respects; and his scarred face was closed. Balin stood beside him, looking sombre. They watched Thorin as he slunk away, his great shoulders hunched with grief.

"He really loved that little shieldmaiden, didn't he," Dwalin observed.

"Aye," said Balin, and shook his head sadly. "It's a great pity. A great pity."

"You know," Dwalin said after a while, "I always thought the Orcs would get her in the end. But to go like this…"

"Aye, I know. They're so fragile, these humans."

"And the kid. Such a shame about the kid."

Balin sighed. "I know. What a waste. What a terrible waste."

***

Thorin could not abide staying in his chambers; he could not abide sleeping in his bed, not even after they had taken away the mattress that had soaked up her life's blood.

He wandered distractedly at first; but then he took to sitting at the end of deep mineshafts, seeking the solace of stone and darkness. Perhaps it was because the dark and the stone felt like a comforting womb, or perhaps because it was because they felt like the grave. Perhaps it was because there, at the roots of the mountains, he felt closest to the Halls of Waiting, if indeed that was where she was now. Or perhaps she was gone for good; and Thorin hoped he would return to stone, a rock among the dumb rocks, bereft of warmth and sense and feeling.

They would always find him, eventually, but they could not persuade him to come back to the surface; and if they tried to coerce him or even merely touch him, he became violent. In the end, they left baskets of food and drink in the mines, though these remained mostly untouched. If wine were left, he would drink that.

A week went past, and Balin let Thorin be; for after all, the lad should be allowed a period of mourning.

After a second week had gone past, Balin became fretful; and he began to ask himself whether he would not end up having to deal with two madmen instead of one. He approached Dís, and begged her to step forward, and preside council meetings, and to make it look as though the house of Durin were still nominally in charge.

"But, Balin…" Dís said, "I am not… I cannot…"

"Of course you can, my lady!" Balin assured her. " And what's more, you must!"

"My brother would never allow it!" said she.

"Your brother is currently down a mineshaft, lady," said Balin. "But the people need you. Your father needs you. And your brother needs you, too," he told her. And then he added: "let us hope he will realise it in the not too distant future."

***

Dís had never warmed to Thorin's wife, and she still thought that marriage had been a terrible mistake; but she saw that Thorin had been happy. Perhaps that was why she had resented the match so much; perhaps she blamed her brother for thinking of his own happiness. Perhaps she thought that none of them deserved to be happy, not with so many dead to mourn, not as long as Erebor was lost. Or perhaps she had envied him.

Dís ought to have been relieved at that woman's passing; after all, this outcome had been inevitable, and Thorin had been a fool for convincing himself that it could be otherwise. But the circumstances of her death had been so sad – at the very moment Thorin had so longed for, his hope and joy had been snatched away from him; and Dís' heart had been moved to pity for her brother. And now, seeing him hollow-eyed and broken, Dís became frightened.

She had always felt closer to Frerin, with his warm laughter and his easy manner; but Thorin had always been the strong one. Frerin had comforted her after the sack of their home, and their mother's death; he had been her constant companion. But Thorin had been the one the one who had carried on, who had lent his strength to her father and to herself after Azanulbizar, after Frerin was slain. He had been strong for their sake, and for the sake of their folk. He had led the way, and brought them to a new home, though Thráin was half-crazed with sorrow and Dís' own heart had been filled with black despair.

But now Thorin was caving in; and Dís felt the foundations of her world lurch. Though she had feared and resented her brother in the last few years, she also remembered that she loved him and needed him. And though she had never taken much of an interest in practical affairs, the more so since her world had been shrunk almost to her bower since her brother's wedding, she remembered who she was, and where her duty lay.

She was sixty-five; and her girlhood was over.

"Very well," she told Balin. "Fill me in."

And if that horse-woman had been able to learn how to run things, then so would she.

***

They had fetched Thorin out of his mineshaft at last; he was numb, and haggard, and half-starved, and shook like a leaf. Balin had put him to bed like a dwarfling, and given him a hot draught, and watched him until he fell asleep; but all the while Thorin had not looked into his eyes, let alone spoken a word to him. He seemed to have wholly withdrawn into himself.

After Thorin had finally drifted off into an exhausted sleep, Balin studied him for a long while, and asked himself what he could do. Surely there had to be something he could do to help the lad mourn? Thorin had been through a lot, and seldom let anything of his grief show. But this had been too much for him. The shattered hope; the loss. The guilt. Balin wondered how he could help Thorin feel less empty-handed.

He left Thorin's bedside, and opened the door to Helmwyn's mountainside chamber. Everything was still as she had left it: the mess of papers on her writing-table. Her polished armour on its rack. Her fur-lined mantle, thrown over a chair. The cushions she had scattered when her waters broke. Thorin's harp, standing on one side of the room. The little bed that had been readied for the child, beside it.

Balin wiped his eyes, and went to explore the room, looking for anything that could offer Thorin some solace. He picked up the furs; he would lay them over Thorin while he slept. That might comfort him. Then again, it might not. He wandered over to the desk, and sifted through the papers. There were trade reports. Accounts. Khuzdul verbs. Sheet music. An unfinished attempt at a translation of _The Linden Tree_ , crossed through in several places. It was doggerel; but perhaps the original was, too. Balin smiled wistfully.

He looked up; and there, pinned over the writing-table, were the pages from that Elf's sketchbook. They showed studies of several Dwarves, including one of himself, chuckling; and several others of Helmwyn, at various angles. In pride of place, there was that one sketch she had loved, the rather striking one of Thorin, frowning like thunder.

Balin looked long at the sketches; and then a notion came to him.

***

Thorin had hoped to find blissful oblivion down in the dark of the mineshaft; but he had not, and memories plagued him, as did the knowledge that nothing he could do would change what was. He could not go back down the mineshaft; but neither could he bear to stay in his chambers.

He had tried sleeping through his grief; but he kept dreaming that Helmwyn had died, and he would wake up in a sweat, his heart pounding, and sigh with relief when he realised that it had only been a dream. And then the cold recollection would creep upon him that what he had dreamt was true, that she was gone; and he would curl in upon himself, and pray that the earth would swallow him up. The gods remained deaf.

And so Thorin went to the forges. Not to work; for one smith had tried putting a hammer in his hand, and Thorin had merely stared at the thing. He could not lift it. A great weariness had taken hold of him. Perhaps he saw the vanity of all toil and struggle. Perhaps he simply did not have the strength for it. He slunk into a corner, and stayed there, listening to the roar of the furnaces and the beating of metal on metal. He watched the hammers fall and the sparks fly.

Folk were not unduly surprised that their Prince was acting strangely, for everyone knew that he had doted on that human wife of his; and besides, he would not have been the first from the line of Durin to go a little funny in the head. (Thráin's erratic behaviour was an open secret; but the royal house was the royal house. In any case, young lady Dís seemed to be managing well enough).

But Balin refused to give up so easily; and he sent messengers to the Havens, and shortly afterwards an Elf rode into the settlement, together with a cart loaded with blocks of white marble. The Elf declared that he needed daylight, and did not wish to be confined under stone for months; and so Balin had arranged for him to live and work down in the village. Folk stared at this strange visitor; but they heard sounds of chiselling coming form his workshop, and seemed reassured that he practiced a wholesome trade like stonework.

***

"You're coming with me, Thorin my lad. There's something I want to show you."

Thorin looked up absently at him, but did not protest; and so Balin dragged an apathetic Thorin down into the village.

"Remember Aurvandil?" Balin said with forced cheerfulness, as one would address a child.

Thorin blinked at the tall Elf. He was dressed in working-clothes, and his demeanour was less cocky than it had been at Círdan's; but he vaguely remembered him. "Hrm." That might have been a Yes. "The one with the sketchbook," said Thorin. His voice was hoarse from lack of use.

The Elf bowed lightly, and invited Thorin to step closer to a slab of white marble that lay on his workbench. The broad outlines of a statue had already been hewn from the stone.

Thorin looked down at the reclining figure. The carving was unfinished, and Aurvandil had yet only sketched out the shape of the body. But the face was finished, and Thorin looked on it with painful amazement. The Elf had succeeded in giving the hard stone the appearance of soft and yielding flesh, and beyond that, the look of life itself.

Between the coils of hair that fell away from her face, the lady Helmwyn looked asleep. It seemed that her eyes would move under her stone lids, and that her lips would part. He had even captured the little frown line between her brows, and the scar on her hairline. Thorin's heart tightened in his chest, for the carved image looked more like his wife than her own corpse had; but when he touched the statue's cheek, it was hard, cold, smooth polished stone.

He traced the outlines of the stone face and stone curls, and wiped away the tears that had come unbidden to his eyes. He collected himself for an instant, then turned around and stalked out of the room.

"Good work. Carry on," he growled to the Elf as he stomped past; but he did not meet his eye.

Aurvandil gave Balin a worried look, but Balin patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, lad; that means he really likes it".

***

Thorin was not in the forge when Balin sought him; but he thought he could guess where he would find him.

Thorin was sitting in Helmwyn's mountainside chamber, hugging her fur-lined robe, the sliver fox from far Forochel he had given her. How she had loved these furs. Thorin had buried his face in the thick grey pelt, trying to catch what was left of her scent. The sight of the elven statue must have unlocked something deep inside him; for he wept like a child.

Balin walked up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. "You knew this day would come, laddie," he said gently. "You can't say you didn't."

"Not so soon," Thorin sobbed. "Not like this."

Balin patted Thorin on the back for a while, then went and sat in a chair next to him. He would talk when he was ready.

"I killed her," Thorin said at last, his voice thick with tears.

 _Here we go_ , thought Balin. _Guilt_. Perhaps, he reflected, guilt was easier to bear than the sheer sense of loss; for that way at least, Thorin might not feel so powerless. He could blame someone. He could turn his anger against himself.

"She said that perhaps she was not meant to have children," Thorin went on. "I should have let her be, free under the sky. She belonged among the green grasslands, riding in the sunlight with laughter on her lips. She might even have wed the steward of Gondor, and been as a queen among her own race. But I was selfish, and wanted her for myself, to have and to keep like a jewel in a casket; and I tore her from her land, and brought her here among strange folk, to bury her under vaults of stone while she lived!"

Balin turned to Thorin: "With all due respect, laddie: that's rubbish, and you know it." And then, a little more kindly: "You forget something, laddie: she loved you. Aye, she came here for your sake, but she would have followed you into a dragon's den rather than be sundered from you. Do you really think she would have been content, had she remained among her own kind? To be sure, she would have led a busy life, and laboured for the good of her people; but I believe that if you hadn't sent for her, her heart would have been poisoned with bitterness. You may grieve for her, aye, but don't you ever regret the time you shared; for she may have dwelt with you only a few short years, but it was her choice, and she was happy."

Thorin listened to Balin's words, and blinked through his tears. "Was she?" he wondered aloud. "Was she really?"

"You know she was," Balin said.

Thorin dwelt on that for a while. "When I think of the precious years I wasted…" Thorin began.

"You thought it necessary at the time," said Balin. "And in any case: that can't be helped now."

"Do you think…do you think it would have made a difference?"

Balin considered that. There was no way of knowing. But just to soothe Thorin, he said: "Probably not."

Thorin thought of their years of parting, and how he had endured her absence then. Aye, those three years had been painful; but something had ever tugged at his heart inside his chest, telling him: _your lady waits, far away to the South, she waits!_ But now there was no tug, no hope, no waiting: she was gone.

Her papers were still there, scattered on the writing-table; her garments were still there, and her sunlit chamber: and time and again Thorin would find long golden hairs in his chambers and among her belongings. But he knew that the echo of her laughter would soon fade from these chambers, and her scent on her clothes would soon be lost. And silence would fall on these rooms like a pall of dust, and absence would fill them like an icy draft, and the bright sunlit chamber would become as bereft of life as a tomb.

***

Thorin's limbs felt as heavy as lead, and his heart was as heavy as a stone; and his mind felt empty, and his senses numb. He sensed that there was a great wave of grief waiting to crash down upon him if he let it. But he had tried weeping, and it had brought him little comfort; and so he preferred feeling numb.

When he could bring himself to move at all, he would trudge down to the outbuilding where the Elf had set up his workshop. The walk to the village was almost more than Thorin could bear, for it meant going out, walking past folk, feeling their eyes on him; but he did not meet their gaze and trudged on.

He would ensconce himself in a corner of the Elf's hut, and watch him at his work. He did not bother to ask the Elf's permission; nor did he care overmuch if his constant scrutiny made the Elf uncomfortable. In truth, Thorin found the sights and sounds of stonework soothing. He sometimes paid no real attention to what the Elf was actually doing, and was content to let himself be lulled by the sounds of chiselling. But when he did pay attention, Thorin became engrossed in the skill and precision of the Elf's gestures. Thorin would only grudgingly have admitted it; but the Elf's skill at stonework was remarkable.

Aurvandil had used his old sketches to recreate a likeness of the lady Helmwyn; and he had been shown some jewellery and garments of hers, bearing the patterns of the Mark. But beyond that, much of the work seemed to spring from his own marvellous power of recollection, or his imagination, or both. The folds of her gown and the coils of her hair took shape as though the hard stone were as soft and pliable as clay; and beneath her feet, Aurvandil carved a little figure of an Orc, writhing in defeat. That brought a pale smile to Thorin's lips.

Very cautiously, the Elf handed Thorin a charcoal and some parchment, and bade him draw the lady's sword in as much detail as he could recall. Thorin looked up, and actually met the Elf's gaze; and he spent several hours slowly retracing the outlines of the sword's pommel and cross-guard, and the fittings on the scabbard, that he had designed years ago. Helmwyn had once teasingly asked him whether the quadrupeds on the cross-guard were meant to be horses; and he had looked so put out that she had laughed brightly, and covered his face with kisses, and told him at length how much she loved that sword.

Thorin put down the charcoal and hid his face in his hands; and Aurvandil looked away, and pretended not to notice that he wept.

***

When the sculpture was finished, detailed and polished, it was brought to the crypt, and placed upon the lady's tomb. The Dwarves found that strange, and even a little tasteless; for if they could see the point of statues, and the point of tombs, they failed to see the logic behind placing a statue of a dead body on top of the tomb where said body lay. It seemed disrespectful to them, somehow. A plain slab with the deceased's outer name was much more dignified. This…well…it was a little elvish. And rather vulgar.

But the image brought comfort to Thorin in his grief. To be sure, it was cold to the touch. But it gave him somewhere to go, and something to talk to. It helped him push away the ghastly memories of his lady's corpse with the waxy skin and the sunken eyes; it helped him remember her as she had been in life. He reflected that he would have need of that in the long years to come.

Sometimes he slept in the crypt. The stone and the dark soothed him; and at least, in the crypt, he was not plagued by dreams. When Thorin lay in his bed, dozing half-awake, he would feel pleasantly warm, as though her body were close, and her golden head lay on the pillow next to his; but when he reached out, he would find that the sheets where cold, and the pillow was empty, and he remembered that she was gone. And then he would lie awake in the dark while the long hours crawled by, alone in this bed that was too big for him.

***

Balin told Aurvandil all he could remember of the lady Helmwyn's life, and enlisted the help of Amleth and Gerhild; and together they worked out a decorative scheme for the sides of the sarcophagus, where the lady's life would be told in low relief. It was an elaborate scheme, with a crowd of little figures and much intricate detail. Thorin had wanted no part in this, for he felt the statue was sufficient; but when all the panels had been mounted on the tomb, and he beheld them for the first time, his heart tightened with sudden recollection.

Aurvandil had chosen to depict only episodes of the lady's life that had to do with Thorin; and the first panel, at the head of the tomb, showed their first meeting, on the day of the Dwarves' arrival in Edoras. Here, before a crowd of Riders and Dwarves, and before an etched colonnade that was supposed to be Meduseld, stood Helmwyn, offering Thorin the cup of welcome. The scene was formal, and the rendering exquisite - a little elvish, to be sure, but very beautiful.

Thorin turned to look at the right-hand side of the tomb, and gasped. In a narrow panel stood Thorin and Helmwyn beneath the boughs of a linden tree; and he was giving her the sword he had made for her. Next to it was a large composite scene that showed the attack on Helm's Deep. To the left, Thorin fought his way through a crowd of Orcs, while Helmwyn stood to the right, at the foot of a rather fanciful little Hornburg, rallying her men. Orcs and warriors swarmed all over the panel; and in the middle the lovers met, oblivious to the battle that raged around them. (1) The third panel on that side of the coffin was another narrow one, a companion to the one with the linden tree: it showed the old wizard Gandalf, in flowing robes and with a luxuriant beard, giving Helmwyn Thorin's starry jewel.

Thorin walked around to see what was at the foot of the sarcophagus, and actually laughed. The tale of the side-saddle had been too good not to include: and there was a crowd of lavishly attired lords and ladies, expressing their outrage through various attitudes, whilst Helmwyn stood in the foreground, spurning the Prince of Dol Amroth's ill-thought courting-gift with an emphatic gesture.

The last side showed one long frieze of gorgeous pageantry. The lady, and the King her father, and a host of their Riders cantered on caparisoned steeds, their banners streaming, their shields emblazoned with the sun. Halfway through the panel was the princely wedding, in dwarven halls as splendid as an Elf could make them. And last of all, there was the lady in dwarven finery, enthroned beside her husband. They wore circlets on their brows, and their hands were joined; and if one looked closely, one could see that the lady's belly was slightly swollen.

Thorin was speechless, and gazed long on the storied frieze. But then he remembered that Balin and the Elf were present, and turned to address the artist. "You have outdone yourself, Master Elf," said Thorin, and bowed to Aurvandil. "Rest assured you shall be handsomely rewarded for this."

The Elf returned the bow, rather pleased to have elicited that much of a response from his sullen client. Balin ushered him out of the crypt; and Thorin remained alone with the sculpted tomb.

To tell the truth, Thorin found the thing a little ludicrous. Much of this was an embellished fantasy, of course; but Thorin knew that this monument was not merely for him: this was for the generations to come, for those who would not have known her. They would be able to point at this tomb and say: 'Look, Thorin Oakenshield had a wife. She was of the race of Men, but she was brave, and ruled here as a queen for a time.'

However fanciful the relief, Thorin became rather fond of it; and he spent long hours studying it, and remembering the true events behind these scenes, which had not been nearly as elegant as the Elf had made them.

In the end, he always sat huddled by the panel with the linden tree; for he found that this panel had a grace and an intimacy that the others did not have. Perhaps it was because only the two of them were shown on it; or perhaps it was because Elves are so fond of trees. The Elf had lavished great care on the depiction of the linden tree, its leaves and blossoms sculpted with the utmost delicacy. But when Thorin closed his eyes, he vividly recalled every detail of that day, the wind sighing in the boughs of the tree, and the dappled sunlight through the leaves, and the honeyed scent of the linden-blossom. And he saw her, golden hair rippling in the summer breeze, the soft down on her cheeks, the way her grey eyes shone when he gave her the sword. The day he had understood that he loved her.

***

Balin gave Aurvandil a plump purse filled with gold and silver coins, and the occasional jewel. "Will that do?"

The Elf weighed the purse with a wry smile, and pocketed it. "It shall not be said that the Dwarves are anything less than fair in their dealings," said Aurvandil. "But it is not as though I did this for the money, you know."

Balin raised an eyebrow. "You do it for the love of your craft?" he asked, surprised. That was a sentiment he could relate to – though of course a Dwarf would never have worked for free.

"Aye, to be sure," the Elf replied. "And also…" Aurvandil hesitated, unsure whether he ought to say this aloud. "I like working for mortals. I find them fascinating. So much love and hope and grief crammed into such a short lifespan. It makes them seem so…alive."

Balin gave the Elf a long look. "Don't let Thorin hear you say that, or he'll twist the head from your shoulders, widower or no."

Aurvandil nodded to Balin, and leapt onto his horse, and rode off back to the Havens. He turned in the saddle a last time to wave farewell to Balin, and vanished around a bend in the road.

"What a strange lad," Balin muttered to himself. "Excellent stoneworker. Pity he's an Elf." He went back to the Halls, shaking his head.

***

After the lady Helmwyn's death, many of the Riders that had come north with her wished to return to the Mark, for there was no real point in their staying. To be sure, some of them had started families and built up successful businesses; but even among those who had taken wives, there were those who longed for home.

"There is land to farm in the Mark," Amleth said; "and I doubt not that there are still Orcs to be hunted, even though their numbers may be fewer than before."

"Go then, dear Amleth; go back to your King and your land," said Thorin to him. "I for one shall be saddened to see you go; but as I have come to love the Mark andits folk, so do I understand your desire to return home."

"Farewell then, Thorin Oakenshield! I am proud to have fought beside you, and honoured to have lived among your folk for a few years, in peace."

"Farewell," Thorin answered. "And this I would bid you give your King." He placed in Amleth's hands the casket holding the jewelled cup from Scatha's hoard. "The reason for our parting is a grievous one; and there shall be weeping in the Golden Hall when you return. But this I would bid you tell King Brytta: let this cup be a token of the enduring friendship between the Mountains and the Mark. And though this cup shall not now be an heirloom of my house, may it remain a treasure of the house of Éorl for many generations to come."

They parted with these words; and the Riders' leaving filled Thorin with sorrow, for there was what still bound him to the Mark – gone. He would miss the strong, fair-haired people; he would miss hearing their rich, rolling tongue in the hallways and the barracks. He would miss them, for they reminded him of his lady.

***

Balin sat with Dís before the council meeting, talking her through the agenda. They were both astonished when Thorin swept into the council chamber, wearing his ceremonial furs, looking dark and resolute.

Dís shot to her feet. "Brother!" she exclaimed. "You are back! I shall leave forthwith…"

Thorin gestured to her that she should stay where she was; and he sat down beside her. "Too long have I neglected my duties," he rumbled.

Dís knew this was all she would get by way of apologies or explanations or forgiveness – for now, at any rate; but she felt grateful that her brother was back at last.

"Are you going to be all right, laddie?" Balin asked.

"Aye," Thorin said. But then he felt that these two deserved a little more; and so he added: "I have been happy for a season. But now my summer is over, and my winter has come; and it shall last as long as I live. But I will do my duty by my people."

Dís felt that he was a little late in coming to that conclusion; but for once, she said nothing, and held her brother's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Composite narrative panels. Very popular in Renaissance sculpture. 
> 
> ***
> 
> A/N: Well, boys and girls... I don't know about you, but I feel pretty wistful after all that. But well, childbirth is a hazardous business, especially in a medievalish world. It's not quite over though; there are still a couple of loose ends that need tying up. Stay tuned. And thank you all for bearing with me for this whole year!


	62. Chapter 61

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 61**

 

In the years that followed, what remained of the line of Durin formed an uneasy triumvirate in the Blue Mountains. Thorin had never apologised to Dís for keeping her a virtual prisoner for years; and she had never truly sought his forgiveness for plotting to kill his wife. But they closed ranks and supported each other, for they knew full well it was vital that the line of Durin give an outward show of strength and unity, even though its foundations were crumbling.

Thorin ruled. He attended council meetings, and gave judgments, and met with envoys, and talked to tradesmen, and visited artisans, and walked the settlement, much as he had before. But though in truth he had ever been dour and grim, a pall of despondency now hung over him like a thundercloud. Often a great weariness would creep over him, and he would gaze into the middle-distance, utterly indifferent to what the councillors were saying; and that was where he needed Dís.

Though inexperienced, she had rallied magnificently when Balin had called for her help; and her temper and her native pride were enough to keep obstructive tradesmen and squabbling petitioners in check. And she learned. Balin schooled her, and Gróa was attached to her service; and though that cohabitation was tense at first, both women understood that they must learn to work together, for the greater good. And Thorin was relieved that his sister was there to help him shoulder the burden of rule. Dís took over Helmwyn’s tasks, though she was perhaps not as shrewd. She began to replace Helmwyn in the hearts of the common folk, though perhaps her manner was more stilted. Little by little, she took Helmwyn’s place in the Blue Mountains.

Thorin hardly cared – he let the tide of day-to-day business wash over him, and dealt with it as dutifully as he could; though in truth both his patience and his attention span were much shorter than they had been. He had never been one to suffer fools gladly; but now his temper swung between apathetic and foul, and was prone to flaring up unexpectedly. When Thorin had had enough of the noise and the stupidity, he would vanish into the mountains for a few days, and seek refuge in a cave somewhere, or near a waterfall. He would fill his heart with the solitude, and with the rustling of the wind in the fir-trees; and he would return to his halls, resigned.

Strangely enough, as Thorin became ever more sullen and withdrawn, Thráin seemed to become more focused. He had gone through a phase of sitting in the treasury, counting and counting coins of gold and silver and copper, and such gems as there were. This was harmless enough, and so the treasurers let him be; they merely searched him whenever he made to leave, to make sure he had not secreted any coins about his person. Thorin thought this behaviour nothing unusual as far as the line of Durin was concerned, and paid it no heed. But whether it was the counting that focused his mind, or whether the gold, what little there was of it, had sparked off new thoughts within him, still it seemed that the King was more himself than he had been in a long time.

Not that he was sane. He was still prone to fits of rage, and to strange absences; but he surprised many by uttering some strange and bold advice concerning certain investments. Those that heeded him made great profits; and soon it became plain that old Thráin had developed a keen eye when it came to trade (though strangely, he had had little enough sense for that in the days of his youth, being first and foremost a warrior). None wasted any thoughts on wondering whence Thráin’s sudden insights came; but the King was courted again, and his great roaring laugh was heard in his halls. And Dís threw her arms about her father’s neck and wept grateful tears that he was – somewhat – returned to them.

Thorin watched these developments balefully; and once he had assured himself that his father’s uncanny new instinct for commerce was doing no harm, on the contrary, he largely let him do as he pleased, and merely kept a distant eye on things.

“I know it sounds odd,” Balin would say, “but he’s making a good deal of sense.”

“He still has that mad gleam in his eye,” Thorin answered darkly.

“I know that, laddie, I know that. But sometimes…those insights he has…it’s quite baffling.”

“You want to believe there is a way back for him?” said Thorin.

“Don’t you?”

Thorin sighed. “Just…set a watch on him, and make sure he doesn’t do anything embarrassing.”

Thráin may not have entirely recovered his wits, but he seemed happier than he had been; and Thorin wished him well, but remained distant. Not that their relationship had ever been very close when Thráin had been sane; but now Thorin had great trouble feeling close to anyone at all.

Thráin had greatly surprised his son one day with an “I heard about that wife of yours – I’m sorry, my boy” and a pat on the shoulder. Thorin had been too stunned to reply at the time (this had been around the time when he slunk to and fro between his chambers and the village to visit the Elf’s workshop). But ever since, he had adamantly refused to discuss the issue, perhaps fearing that Thráin might say things that were less kind. Or perhaps he feared sympathy, and clumsy attempts at consolation.

Thorin wanted neither, and shut himself away.

***

The years lengthened. The pain was numbed, but not extinguished; and it flared up again at the slightest prompting. Thorin tried not to think of her, for her absence tore at his heart. He did what he could to avoid being reminded of her. He had the great oaken bed taken away, and now slept in a narrow, Dwarf-sized cot. The music had gone out of him. His harp stood in her chamber with the windows on the mountainside, untouched. The door to her chamber he kept shut; though he did not have it sealed. He went to the crypt seldom.

But always he wore the locket that held the braid of her hair. And if he rode abroad in the summer, when the scent of linden blossom was heavy in the vales, he would become silent, and hang his head; and his eyes would fill with tears.

But sometimes Thorin became afraid that he could not quite remember her face, or the scent of her skin, or the sound of her voice. He would finger the little golden figure of a shieldmaiden he had made, with blank eyes and stylised features; and he wistfully recalled what she had once said about the merits of dwarven sculpture. She had been right of course: Dwarves could not capture a likeness.

And on such days he would gaze upon the pages of the Elf’s sketchbook, that he kept preciously bound in leather; or he would go down to the crypt, and look upon her cold white marble image, and huddle by the panel with the linden-tree. On such days, he would go into to her sunlit chamber; and if he really desired to hurt himself, he would play _The Linden Tree_ , and lean his head against the frame of the harp, and weep. On such days, Thorin found that he recalled her only too well.

For a few years, Thorin had known warmth and love and sweet togetherness, and perhaps that had made him soft. His father often told him that he had gone soft; and perhaps he was right. But Thorin had known hope. Such hope. Now the warmth of those few short years had faded like a dream; and every morning Thorin woke with a dull grey emptiness in the pit of his stomach. It never left him. Nothing touched him. Food had no savour. Even his anger felt dull and remote.

To be sure, Thorin had been through dark times before – darker times than these. He had endured great losses, and the hardships and indignity of exile. Pride had sustained him then, and a sense of his own destiny, and a desire for revenge. The duty to lead his people to a new home. In his darkest hours, after the sack of Erebor, and after his brother’s death, Thorin had carried on because he must, because his people looked to him for guidance. But even in his darkest hours, Thorin had felt alive.

Now his folk were content. All that was left for him to do was to oversee things. It mattered not whether he felt alive or no. In fact, it was better that he did not. He had no hope left for himself.

***

Often Balin stay would stay on in Thorin’s study after hours, and they would share a little wine, and talk. This was as much social interaction as Thorin could face. Of course, Balin still tended to fuss over him like a mother hen, but Thorin did not mind overmuch. Balin had always worried about him. It was his way of showing that he cared. In truth, Thorin felt more comfortable with Dwalin’s gruffly silent manner; but he trusted Balin to tell him what he would not want to hear, which was a quality he valued in his friend and counsellor.

“Thráin has been raving about retaking Erebor again,” said Balin, pouring Thorin another cup of wine.

“He’s been raving about it for years,” said Thorin gloomily.

“It upsets people,” Balin pointed out.

Thorin shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t get them excited. We’ve only just settled down. Last thing we need is a bunch of able-bodied fools running off into the blue.”

“I don’t think the common folk are very keen,” said Balin. “But that might change. Thráin has got the elders’ support, you know.”

“Well, it won’t be the elders risking their high-born hides to smoke the worm out of his lurking-place!” said Thorin irritably. “I’m not having any of this nonsense, and that’s final. The elders can kiss my Durin backside.” Both of them tactfully refrained from mentioning the recurring theme of Thráin’s nostalgic rants: that his son had manifestly failed to secure the succession, so the least he could do was to undertake a bold quest to reclaim the Mountain. Make himself useful. “My father can bloody well go and try his luck himself,” Thorin growled; “I’m not stopping him.”

“Shush, lad; don’t say that. Remember what happened to Thrór.”

“As if I could ever forget,” said Thorin, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Balin.” There was a pause. They both drank thoughtfully. “Anyway,” Thorin went on, “what does it matter that my father goes around undermining me? Look at us. Look at the state of Durin’s folk!” He gave a mirthless laugh. “A rather sorry bunch, wouldn’t you say? Honestly, can you picture us launching an assault on the Mountain? A few ragged Dwarves with pickaxes?” Thorin laughed harder; he laughed until his eyes were streaming. It was a sad, desperate laughter; and Balin slowly shook his head.

***

Thráin had given up on his son. The lad had clearly become spineless and complacent. Perhaps his mind was addled. Well, Thráin was going to have to take care of things himself, then.

He took down his trusty old warhammer from above the mantelpiece, where it had hung; and from his secret hiding-place he took his most treasured possessions: his father’s ring, map, and key. He had kept them safe through all these years; but now the time had come to do what he was born to do. The deed was his to attempt, and his alone.

And since the line of Durin had failed, Thráin was determined at the very least to make an end that would be remembered in songs and tales for ages to come.

***

Balin burst into Thorin’s rooms in the middle of the night, flanked by guards, and looking rather dishevelled. “He’s gone!” Balin was shouting. “Thráin’s gone!”

Thorin blinked. “How so?” he asked, a little bewildered. “Is he wandering around naked again? But he hasn’t done that in years!”

“It’s serious this time, Thorin. He raided the kitchens, stuffed food into his bag, then marched off to the stables and saddled a pony and just left!”

Thorin shot the guards a dark look. “And do you mean to tell me that they just _let_ him?”

“They couldn’t stop him! You know your father. Ten Dwarves wouldn’t have been able to restrain him. And he was armed!”

Thorin hid his face in his hands. “He’s gone to reclaim the Mountain, hasn’t he.”

“Most likely, lad.”

Thorin sighed. “Take some soldiers and go after him. He trusts you. Try to convince him to turn back.”

“Dwalin is setting up a search party as we speak. But, Thorin - what if he won’t come back with us? Are we supposed to truss him up?”

Thorin would not subject his father to that indignity, even in his current state. “If he won’t turn back - humour him, keep him safe, and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. He’ll give up eventually, you mark my words; at the very least when he gets to the Mountain and finds the Great Gate closed with rubble. He might bang his head against the rock and shout challenges at the dragon for a few days, but even he will get bored of that in the end.”

“We’ll do what we can,” said Balin doubtfully – he knew how stubborn Thráin could be. “But Thorin – think of the dangers that could beset-”

“There’s no time. Go after him. Go,” said Thorin, clapping Balin on the shoulder, and hurried him out of the door. “…Bring him back.”

Thorin watched Balin and his men run off down the hall, and hung his head. He should have gone himself. He would have gone himself, had he thought for a second that Thráin would listen to him. But Thorin knew all too well that he was a failure in his father’s eyes. Nay, he was the last person that Thráin would want to see riding after him.

Thorin took a candle, and went to wake his sister, to break the news to her. She was fretful, but he told her not to worry. Balin and Dwalin would bring their father back the next day. Or within a few days at most.

***

After weeks of anxious waiting, a letter was delivered to Thorin. It was somewhat battered, and had evidently taken a long, winding and rather haphazard path through the Shire. Thorin cursed the Halflings for their laziness and tore the letter open. It was from Balin, and Thorin saw to his relief that the news was not bad; but neither was it the news he had hoped for. He also noticed that Balin had chosen to write in Khuzdul, which showed that he was wary of pursuit.

 _Dear Thorin,_ it read,

_We are in Bree now and this is likely the last chance I’ll have to get a message to you for a while. It seems T. is determined to go on with this journey. I begged him to turn back, but he would not hear of it. He hinted that he has some sort of secret plan, but he will not tell us what it is. I am amazed that he hasn’t blurted out his purpose to all the ruffians of Wilderland; but he’s been very cautious. And secretive. He is even trying to conceal his identity – though whether he managed remains to be seen. Folk here have keen eyes and ears; and not all creatures that live in the Wild are friendly._

_Tomorrow we shall leave the comforts of civilisation behind us. But, to tell you the truth, laddie, I shall be glad to gaze once again upon the ancient halls of our folk. I have no great hope for Khazad-Dûm, for even in our strength we could not cleanse it; but perhaps it is not unwise to see how things stand in Erebor. Perhaps the dragon has grown old; perhaps he has died. I do not know if that can be, but I would see it for myself._

_Don’t worry about T., laddie: he’s spry and sharp, and we’re looking after him._

And that was it. That was all the news they had. The weeks crawled past, and then the months, and Thorin and his sister were sick with worry. Their father was gone, and their trusted counsellor was gone, and Thorin’s friend and comrade-in-arms was gone. Thorin tried not to imagine the myriad unpleasant ends that they could have met between here and Erebor. Dís _could_ not imagine them, and so Thorin tried to soothe his sister with lies. “They will probably have found somewhere quiet to pass the winter,” he would tell her. “That’s what I’d do. They’re probably holed up in Laketown as we speak – forging nails, eating fish stew, and cursing the damp!”

“You really think so, brother?” Dís would ask.

“Of course!” answered Thorin, who did not. “They’ll be back in the spring; you’ll see.” And he rubbed his sister’s shoulders in a way that was meant to be reassuring. Somehow, Thorin felt he was not a very good liar.

***

Balin and Dwalin and their men did indeed return in the spring, as Thorin had said they would: but they returned without Thráin. They looked grim and hollow-eyed, and Balin shook his head; and Dís wailed, and Thorin merely stared at them, and bade them tell what had happened. He bade them tell the tale over and over again.

Balin said they had had nothing but ill-fortune from the moment they left Bree. Wolves pursued them, Orcs waylaid them, evil birds shadowed their path. Many misadventures befell them; but still Thráin would not give up. He toiled on, fired by an indomitable will; he fought magnificently. He was unstoppable. And his companions followed him through adversity; and part of them even began to believe that old Thráin might indeed succeed.

“We made it as far as Mirkwood,” said Balin. “A black storm had been whipping down on us ever since we came down from the Mountains; and we went and sought shelter under the eaves of the forest – I know it sounds foolish now! But it was a bitter storm, laddie, as if it wanted to drive us into the shadow of the trees! And when morning came, the rain had stopped, and - he was gone.”

“He gave you the slip?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” said Balin desperately. “We looked all over for him – he could not have gone far. But Mirkwood, lad – it’s not a wholesome place. Not a wholesome place at all. There were…things in there.”

“It’s the forest itself,” rumbled Dwalin. His face was closed, and he was even more silent than usual.

“I don’t know what it was,” Balin went on; “but there was something at work there. An evil will. Something that made sure we lost our way. We looked for him for days and weeks, lad, I swear we did…but every time we found ourselves back were we’d started.” He hesitated, and said: “I don’t think your father ran away, laddie. I think something – or someone – took him.”

Thorin hid his face in his hands, and said nothing for a long while; and amidst his grief, he tried to fathom the consequences of this. “He was taken, you say; and by an evil power,” he said at last. “Would you have me start a war over this, like we did for Thrór? Even if we were to gather all our distant kin - we cannot afford another war. There are too few of us left. And anyway, a war against whom? At least the filth who killed Thrór was considerate enough to carve his name on his forehead...”

“I failed him. I failed you, Thorin; I’m so sorry-” Balin broke off, and wept.

Perhaps Thorin ought to have been angry. He would have been angry at anyone else for losing the King his father in the wilderness. But he was inclined to believe Balin and Dwalin; and not only because he knew and trusted them. He was inclined to believe them because they seemed to have aged fifty years. Dwalin’s hair had suddenly begun to recede; and as for Balin’s, it had gone from grey to white. They looked haggard. These were Dwarves who had known dragonfire and war; they were as tough as the bedrock. And yet – there had been something, some evil at work, some power bent on thwarting Thráin. Thorin thought of the swarms of Orcs still lurking in Khazad-Dûm. He thought of whatever else dwelt in there, Durin’s bane; and he shuddered. Perhaps its power stretched all the way to Mirkwood now. Or perhaps it was some other, nameless evil. Either way, it was a foe too great for a poor old madman and a handful of his companions, however brave.

Thorin could not bear to see his old friend and comrade burdened with such guilt. He went to Balin, and head-butted him, and held him firmly. “Now, now, my friend,” Thorin said. “You did everything you could. He ran off. You couldn’t have stopped him. For all we know, he fell down a ravine and broke his neck. Or a bear got him.”

“Let’s hope you’re right, laddie,” sobbed Balin. “Let’s hope you’re right.” Such an end seemed preferable to some of the alternatives he’d imagined.

***

When they were left alone, Thorin sat down next to his sister, who was shaking with bitter sobs.

Dís was crushed. She had always been closest to their father, and he had doted on her, even when he could not quite remember who she was. As for Thorin, he had accepted long ago that his father would never again be the great Dwarf he had been; but he regretted never having the chance to say farewell.

The worst part was not knowing for certain what had happened to Thráin. Perhaps he had indeed run off, and had made himself a little shelter in the depths of the forest, and lived by gathering mushrooms and snaring rabbits, and was content. Perhaps. Or perhaps he had been snatched by a band of Orcs, and had endured degradation, pain and death. He did not know. He could not know.

Thorin’s broad shoulders hunched a little more, as though a great weight had been added to the burden he already bore.

Dís had gone still. “It’s only the two of us now,” she said, her voice ragged from weeping.

Thorin sought his sister’s hand, and clasped it. He hesitated for a while, not daring to articulate the thought that filled him with dread. “Is this what awaits me, do you think?” he asked her, almost inaudibly. “When I am old and desperate and have nothing left to lose? Will I too wander off one day, never to return?”

Dís squeezed her brother’s hand so hard it almost hurt. “Please try not to go mad, brother. Not you too.”

Thorin gave a wry smile – more like a grimace. “I’m not mad, sister. Only bitter.”

“I sometimes wonder,” said Dís. Then, more gently, she said: “Don't run off, brother. You are needed here.”

“I thought you wanted me to reclaim the Mountain one day, sister,” Thorin said. Dís began to weep again, and Thorin gingerly put an arm around her shoulders, and held her close. “All right, I won’t; not for many years. After all, I’d have to be truly mad to attempt that.”


	63. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hullo, boys and girls! Have some more Durin family feels. Plenty of that coming up.

  **THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 62**

 

Thorin was ninety-five when Thráin was lost. He was still young by the reckoning of his people, though grief had touched his hair with silver. But he had ruled his folk for many years now, a king in all but name, even since before his father vanished; for Thráin had been crazed. Thorin was King now; but he would not call himself that. He refused the title at first out of respect for Thráin; for after all, it was not certain that the old King was dead indeed, and Thorin still hoped for news. But even years later, when he had heard no tidings of his father’s whereabouts, and all accepted that he surely must be dead, still Thorin would not call himself King. He said that the Blue Mountains were no kingdom, however prosperous they might have become.

The numbers of Durin’s folk had been swollen over the years by many that, having wandered long, had heard at last of Thorin’s halls in the west, and made the long journey to Ered Luin. The first settlement had now grown into a busy market town, and more villages had sprung up in the valleys; and Durin’s folk increased, and crafted, and traded, and grew strong again, little by little.

But still Thorin would not call himself King – not until the lost Kingdom under the Mountain were reclaimed. He had brooded long on his father’s fate, and on his grandfather’s, and on the legacy of his people. Aye, to be sure, the Dwarves had ever built new cities after their fabled homes of old had been lost; indeed, Erebor had been one such recent colony. But Ered Luin could never become as great as Erebor, simply because there was nothing much of value to mine there.

He thought of all the lost treasures that slept under the Mountain – the wealth, to be sure, but also the lore, and the crafts, and the magic. He thought of the vengeance upon the dragon, which he had inherited. The burden was his; it had always been his. He had always known it. But he also had another duty to his people, besides restoring their home and wealth and pride: he owed them life and safety. He was loath to risk their lives in retaking Erebor; but neither could he simply go off and waste his own life on a desperate quest, merely because his sires had done so. Not that he especially valued his life; but someone needed to stay and rule.

Thorin felt torn between two duties; but he stayed in the Blue Mountains, and waited. The time was not ripe. In truth, he had once thought of leaving the throne to Dís, who was well-schooled and well-advised, and was very capable in her own right; but that time had passed, for Dís now had concerns of her own.

 ***

Something happened that Thorin would never have reckoned with: his sister came to him and confessed that she was in love.

To be sure, Thorin had thought her rather sullen and fretful of late; but love – it seemed so unlike her. And yet there she was, his cool sister with her sharp tongue, shaking with sobs, so hard that he barely understood her as she told him of her torment. He managed to catch a word here and there, and gathered that she had become enamoured of one of Dwalin’s soldiers, a young captain by the name of Víli. Thorin vaguely saw who that was. Yellow-haired lad, recently arrived in Ered Luin. Beyond that, Dís was not making much sense.

Thorin was dumbfounded. “But – but…this swain of yours…” he asked cautiously, seeing her so distraught, “has he spurned you?”

“He has not, for I have not spoken to him. I dare not. Aye, to be sure, he smiles at me. But he smiles at everyone! How could he feel aught but pity for me?”

“Pity? Sister, you are a princess of the line of Durin, and you are beautiful-”

“Beautiful?” Dís cried. “Look at me! I always wore my scars proudly, brother; but now, how I wish my face were unmarred! I fear he will not look upon me; for I am ugly and deformed, and he is so fair!”

Ah yes, her scars. The burn-marks on her face. To tell the truth, Thorin hardly noticed them anymore. He genuinely thought his sister a striking woman, with her proud bearing and heavy black braids; and her scars were just that – scars. “Come now,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Our warriors bear scars, many worse than yours. Do you think there is a single dwarf-maid who would spurn them on account of that? Do you think Dwalin any less handsome for the cuts on his face? Well, then. Why should it be otherwise for women? You survived the dragon, little gem. Do not be ashamed of your scars, ever.”

But Dís was not listening. She had evidently decided that she was unworthy of her beloved. “He is like sunshine,” she said, “warm sunshine on my skin. I am a thing of darkness, skulking in caves to hide my bitterness and my grief; but he is golden and smiling as the sun! How could he ever love one such as I?” she wailed.

Thorin was amazed to hear his sister speak thus (not least on account of her insightful self-scrutiny). “Who would have thought you liked the yellow-haired ones,” said Thorin, ill at ease in the face of his sister’s outpouring. But in truth he perceived the depth of her sorrow, and he pitied her, for he could see that she loved desperately. He cast around for advice to give her, though all he could draw on was the time when he himself had pined for love, and in highly unlikely circumstances at that.

“Talk to him,” he said at last. It was the only sensible thing he could think of.

“Alas! I cannot.”

“Sooner or later, you must. But, sister, believe me when I tell you: you shall regret it forever if you do not. Take it from me,” he added encouragingly, though he recalled that he had been anything but eloquent at the time.

“Is that how you did it?” Dís asked almost inaudibly. That was what she had wanted to know all along; but she dared not ask Thorin outright about his courtship of _that woman_ , for she knew that talk of her pained him.  

Thorin sighed. “I waited and waited,” he stammered. “I wanted to be sure…of whether she too…I thought she might, but…but I never could be sure…in the end, I just blurted it out. We had narrowly escaped an Orc-ambush, you see; and I…it was all very clumsy. Luckily, she returned my feelings, and…well. That was that.” Thorin decided not to tell his sister all the details. After all, he did not want to encourage Dís to do what Helmwyn had done, that night in the cave.

Dís thought on her brother’s words; and Thorin soothed her as best he could, until her eyes were more or less dry, and sent her on her way.

***

It did not occur to him until after his sister had left that he had forgotten to inquire after this lad’s lineage.

***

Thorin went to find Dwalin, and learned a little more about the object of his sister’s affection. Young Víli had indeed recently arrived with what was left of his kin, after years of eking out a living among the scattered mannish villages of northern Eriador. Apparently the lad was a skilled hunter, and had quickly gained advancement among Dwalin’s soldiery. “He’s a bit reckless on the training-grounds,” said Dwalin, “but he’s got a way with a bow. Good-natured chap. Quite sharp. Excellent captain material. Why do you ask?”

“I’m afraid the lad has caught my sister’s eye,” said Thorin darkly. “I was wondering whether I ought to encourage this. So you approve of him?”

“Seems like a fine upstanding young man – dunno if I’d want to inflict your sister on him,” Dwalin answered. Thorin gave him a pointed look, and Dwalin laughed delightedly. “Tell you what,” he said; “I'll fiddle with the rota and make sure our lad Víli is regularly assigned to guarding the lady Dís. How does that sound?”

“Can he be trusted?” Thorin asked. “Don’t you think he might try and take advantage of the situation?”

“The way I see it, we should be more worried about Dís trying to take advantage of him,” said Dwalin with a knowing grin. “But don’t worry, he’s a strong lad, I’m sure he’ll manage to fend her off.” Thorin resigned himself to Dwalin’s matchmaking methods, and hoped that the young people would manage to work things out by themselves, one way or the other.

***

There followed a few weeks of utter agony for the lady Dís. Whereas she had both desired and dreaded to catch a glimpse of her beloved whenever she walked the halls, she now stumbled into him almost on a daily basis, when he was not escorting her about the place, or guarding the council chamber.

It was dreadful. She felt brittle and clumsy whenever he was around. She was unable to concentrate on her tasks; she stammered and dropped things, and felt like she was making an utter fool of herself. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him – to say nothing of what happened to her stomach; and she hardly ate or slept. In the end, she was so racked with nervous exhaustion that she resolved to speak her heart and be done, just so that she might get a decent night’s sleep at last, regardless of the outcome.

And so one evening she downed a few cups of wine to give herself courage, summoned him into her study, and quite literally threw herself at him. He did not try to fend her off.

It might be that young Víli had been struck by the princess’ dark beauty, and had longed for her as she had longed for him. Or it might be that he had noticed the way she looked at him; and sometimes love breeds love, and perhaps that is what happened. Or it might be that, for all that her manner could be rather haughty and overbearing, he had perceived the frightened young girl she had been, and the passionate woman she might become. Be that as it may: they came to an understanding.

Víli did feel some compunction on account of Dís’ rank. His family was old, though not as noble as she herself might have wished a few years earlier. But being in love, she reasoned - if indeed one can reason when in love - that individual wealth meant little enough after a long exile; and that family trees mattered even less in these times of healing and re-building, when there were few enough of her people left.

That was what she told Thorin, when she came to ask for his blessing. Thorin raised an eyebrow at her special pleading, but gave her his consent all the same. He was too weary for petty vengeance; and he saw no reason to stop her. After all, who was he to deny her? She was right: there were few enough of them left. The elders were bound to bemoan yet another mésalliance, but the line of Durin would recover. At least there would still be a line of Durin. In any case, he had no heir of his own.

Thorin did insist that the young couple wait before announcing their betrothal, that they might at least get to know each other a little better; but if he had feared the rashness of young love, he saw in the months that followed that this match was a surprisingly sound one. Dís was changed. She was giddy with happiness, as though love had thawed away the bitterness of loss and exile; and she too began to feel that the Blue Mountains could become a home.

Víli possessed an uncomplicated goodness that Dís craved. He was generous, optimistic and dependable, and Thorin could see why he had risen to the rank of captain so quickly. Folk liked him and trusted him. Thorin too found the lad rather likeable, though this was perhaps because he very much reminded him of Frerin - less mischievous, perhaps, more level-headed, and with yellow hair and hazel eyes - but Dís appeared not to have noticed.

But it mattered not. Dís was changed – she knew love, and she knew passion, and she threw her arms around her beloved’s neck whenever she could be alone with him; and when they were wed, and he clasped her in his arms at last, she wept hot tears, for her happiness was almost too great to bear. But he would run his fingers through her heavy black hair, and kiss her scarred face, and smile that reassuring smile of his; and he was all the world to her.

***

Thorin became aware of the fact that sounds _did_ carry through the ventilation shafts, and realised what he had put his sister through for years. He blushed, and modestly considered whether he ought not to block his ears with wax, for he did not wish to partake in his sister’s bliss. But on second thoughts he got out of bed, padded across the room, and unlocked the door to his lady’s chamber. There was a moon that night, and the pale light streamed through the tall windows on the mountainside. As ever when he stepped into that room, Thorin was unsure whether he found it comforting or chilling.

He went to lie down on the daybed, and wrapped her silver furs about himself, and waited for sleep; but while he waited, he found himself remembering his own wedding night – the tears, the kisses, a joy so great it hurt, that much-desired embrace after the anguish of long parting. Thorin remembered her sleeping form in his arms, and tried to fool himself that the warmth of the furs was her own. And as slumber stole over him, it seemed to Thorin that it was there, tenuous, that he could almost grasp it - the ghost of his own happiness.


	64. Chapter 63

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 63**

Of course, it took no time at all for Dís to become pregnant. She took it in her stride, as though that state could not be more welcome or more natural to her. She felt no sickness; on the contrary: she positively bloomed. Admittedly, she craved strange foods at odd hours, but save for that quirk, her state troubled her not in the least. She went about her business much as she had always done; and folk flocked around her and fêted her, and Dís smiled graciously, the very image of fecundity and happiness.

Thorin had mixed feelings about his sister’s pregnancy; and they became increasingly ambivalent as her figure filled out, her bosom swelled, and she seemed to glow more with every passing day. Balin naturally assumed that Thorin was worried about the delivery, and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Don’t worry, laddie, she’ll be fine,” he said; though in truth Thorin was unsure whether he was indeed worried, or whether he was not envious of his sister’s rude good health.

But when the time of the birth came, Thorin found that he was, in fact, terrified. This he showed by sitting stony-faced and silent in the antechamber while Víli paced around like a caged beast, starting every time a scream was heard from the birthing-room. Thorin was becoming exasperated by his brother-in-law’s pacing; and as the young Dwarf threatened to burst into the room after a particularly virulent bout of cursing, Thorin grabbed him by the arm to stop him. “She’s cursing, that’s a good sign,” said Thorin gloomily. “It’s when the cursing stops that you should start worrying.” In truth, Thorin was amazed that his sister even knew such foul language.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Víli anxiously.

“Quite sure,” answered Thorin, who was not. “Now for Mahal’s sake, stop pacing. If things go badly, they’ll come and get you soon enough.”

Víli gave his brother-in-law a baleful look, then went and sat down, and puffed nervously on his pipe. Thorin reflected that he had not been very reassuring; then again, he hardly knew how to be.

The waiting seemed endless; and at length the screams died down, and all was quiet in the birthing-room. At last the doors to the antechamber were opened, and Víli ran inside; and Thorin thought he would give his brother-in-law time to take in whatever there was to take in. But after a few minutes, as he heard no weeping, Thorin ventured into the room himself.

The scene was as idyllic as he might have expected. Dís was sitting up, propped on a mound of cushions, looking exhausted but radiant; and Víli had his arm around her, and poked his finger delightedly at the bundle in his wife’s arms. They were so absorbed in the contemplation of the pink, wrinkled little being that they seemed completely oblivious to Thorin’s presence. He walked hesitantly towards the bed.

“Brother!” called Dís, noticing him at last. “Behold,” she said, beaming; “the Heir of Durin!”

“Oh,” said Thorin; “good.” He thought he ought to add something. “Well done.”

“We shall call him Fíli,” said Dís proudly; “Fíli of the line of Durin.” Thorin thought it hardly a very royal name, but did not have time to protest. Before he knew it, Víli had swooped upon him, and deposited the child in his unresisting arms. “There, my son,” the young father cooed. “This is your uncle.” Thorin held the bundle awkwardly, and looked down at it.

The child in his arms was a bonny little dwarfling with a shock of fair hair and golden down on his cheeks.

Thorin swallowed. He cautiously handed the precious bundle back to Víli, and with some mumbled words of congratulation he escaped from the room as quickly as was seemly, and went and shut himself in his rooms. His heart raced, and his hands shook; and he laid his brow against the cold stone wall to steady himself.

As he held his sister’s child, all of a sudden, a vision of all that never was had passed before his mind’s eye, unbidden.

He saw Helmwyn holding their little son, resting his little head on her shoulder, singing him to sleep in that warm, musical voice of hers. She would have spoken to him in the tongue of the Mark, her rich and sonorous native tongue, that he had so loved to hear her speak; and Thorin would have taught the child Khuzdul, as behoves the heir of Durin. They would have teased each other, taking bets on whether the child’s first word would be _éoh_ (1) or _bark_ (2). But together they would have spoken the common speech, and the child would have picked it up soon enough. All would have been well.

He would have made wooden tools for his son: a little hammer and a little anvil; and when the child had grown, he would have made him wooden weapons. She would have taught him his letters; and he would have taught him metalwork. She would have taught him to ride a pony, and he would have taught him to swing an axe - how they would have played at war, the three of them!

Thorin stood there, with his brow pressed against the stone, clinging to the vivid images of the life that might have been his. He knew not how long he stayed thus; but at length he heard, through the ventilation shafts, the distant squalling of the new-born child – his sister’s son – his heir. Thorin knew he ought to be pleased. Nay; he ought to be beside himself with joy and relief. He knocked his head against the wall a few times, to remind himself that _this_ was the here and now; and when he had steeled himself sufficiently, he stomped down to the great hall to proclaim the glad news to his people.

***

The elders were pleased, of course. The people rejoiced. Gifts were sent from as far as the Grey Havens. And, to tell the truth, Thorin did feel relieved, as though a great weight had fallen from his shoulders. It would be an overstatement to say that Thorin looked to the future with optimism; but at least the next few years of his rule were reasonably serene.

The royal apartments were bright with the child’s laughter; and Víli proved to be a very affectionate father (though there were nurses for that sort of thing). He would roll around on the floor with his son, pretending to be a bear; and he would pick him up, throw him in the air and catch him again, so that the child shrieked with delight. And when the child had grown a little, Víli made him a whole array of wooden swords.

No sooner had Fíli been weaned (though there were nurses for that sort of thing, too) than Dís was pregnant again. Fíli took a keen interest in the process, and was constantly asking when the new baby would be ready. And when the child was born at last, it was another son, and Dís decreed he would be called Kíli (another idiotic name, Thorin thought, but said nothing). Little Fíli immediately appointed himself his constant companion, playfellow and guardian; and the noise in the royal apartments redoubled. Dís teased Víli that they should try for a girl next.

Thorin beheld the blissful domestic tableau with some bemusement. He supposed he was glad for them, and not merely on account of the succession; but he was a little put out by the merry agitation that the little ones caused. Thinking back to his own childhood under the Mountain, Thorin seemed to remember rather more – well – decorum, and not this whirlwind of happy squeals and wooden building blocks and bumps on foreheads and half-eaten apples. But perhaps the line of Durin could afford to relax their standards somewhat; after all, they had already taken to marrying beneath themselves, and this was Ered Luin. Or perhaps it was merely that Thorin was uncomfortable around children.

He did not remember being so awkward around his own siblings when they had been that little; but then again, he had been a child himself at the time, and he had seen his siblings as people rather than as children – even Dís. But now the dwarflings seemed to him almost like a different species, with their peculiar needs and moods and language; and if one or the other climbed onto his lap before he could stop him, he would gingerly hold the child’s back, and feel the little shoulderblades moving under his palm; and he would wonder at the vigour of the little ones, and at their frailty.

For some unfathomable reason, the little ones were fond of him, and tried to crawl all over him at every opportunity, despite repeated attempts to shoo them away. Thorin could not always claim work or weariness as a pretext, and thus family gatherings could not always be avoided; and when he stepped into his sister’s apartments, the little ones would dance around him, and hang on the hem of his robes.

To be fair, they also gave such a welcome to Balin; but that at least was understandable, for Balin was more avuncular than Thorin could ever be - and Balin told the most wonderful stories. Balin told them of Mahal the Maker, and of Father Durin, and of the fabled treasures made by the Dwarves, and of the Kingdom under the Mountain; and the children would listen wide-eyed. But so would Dís and Víli, who had themselves barely been older than the little ones when the Mountain was lost; and all that they recalled were dim images of great, shining spaces, and unspeakable fear. Thorin remembered Erebor a little better, but even he was shocked at how much he had forgotten; and he wondered whether what he remembered were truly Erebor, or merely Erebor as he had imagined it from Balin’s stories.

But however fine a storyteller Balin may have been, he did not possess much of a singing voice; and so inevitably he would ask Thorin to sing, and Dís would join her entreaties to his, and the whole family would chorus, begging Thorin for a song until he eventually caved in. And so Thorin had risen, and reluctantly gone into his lady’s chamber, and fetched his harp; and he had brought it into his sister’s rooms, and tuned it, and painstakingly changed the strings that had snapped. And for all that this took a long while, the little ones did not become bored or impatient, but waited with rapt anticipation for their uncle to sing.

Thorin touched the strings a little hesitantly, for he was out of practice; but he played simple songs, songs that every dwarfling learnt, songs that spoke of the wind on the heath beyond Erebor, and of streams running down mountains and under mountains and out of mountains, and of a Dwarf digging, digging until he found iron, and copper, and silver, and gold. His dark, tuneful voice was surprisingly gentle, and the harp rang warm and clear; and the little ones were entranced by the simple beauty of the music.

But always Thorin would stop too soon; and when the little ones clamoured for more, he would tell them that he only knew so many songs. This was not true, of course, for he knew many more; but these were songs of war and pride, slaughter and sorrow, and would not sing them to his sister-sons. And so he would bid them all good-night, and haul his harp back to his rooms; and the little ones were sorry to see him go.

***

One day, as Thorin walked into his sister’s chamber, the little ones ran to him with delighted cries of “grumpy uncle Thorin!”

Thorin raised his eyebrows at his sister, who hurried after her offspring, pulled them to one side and crouched down to scold them gently.

“I’ve told you you weren’t to call him that,” she said in a stage whisper. “It’s not nice.”

“But it’s true!” exclaimed Kíli. “He’s always grumpy!”

“He isn’t grumpy; he’s… sad,” said Dís.

“Why is he sad?” inquired Fíli.

Dís shot her brother a worried look, and hesitated. “Because… because he doesn’t have a family of his own.”

The dwarflings stared at their mother, then at each other. At once, they escaped from their mother’s grasp before she could stop them, and went to clutch Thorin’s robe again. “Uncle Thorin!” they cried. “Mummy says you’re sad. But you mustn’t be sad anymore! _We’re_ your family!”

Dís ran after them once again, and forcibly peeled her cubs away from her brother’s legs. “I’m so sorry, brother -” she began apologetically.

But Thorin shook his head. “It’s all right. They’re too young to understand. Let them be.” After all, it was only natural that they should think themselves the centre of the world. Which, in a way, they were.

Thorin sat by the fire, smoking his pipe, thoughtfully watching the little ones roll around on the rug, while his sister sat beside him, looking up from her embroidery once in a while to make sure her sons were not hurting themselves or each other. And once again, Thorin mused about the family he might have had.

Thorin reflected that, had his son lived, he would have been forty-five by now – perhaps already a grown lad, on account of his human blood. He would already have been skilled with weapons. Thorin wondered what his son’s weapon of choice would have been. Axe? Sword? Bow, perhaps? And he thought of Frerin, and remembered that Frerin had not lived to be much older than forty-five.

And what of his wife? She would have been an old woman by now; perhaps she would already have died. How long did humans live, again? Such a short time. But what would Thorin not have given for a few more years! He remembered her aunt Ortrud, and smiled to himself, and thought that Helmwyn would have looked very handsome as an older woman. And then her hair would have turned from gold to silver, and time would have scored ever deeper lines into her face, and her lithe frame would have become frail – and he would have lost her, still much too soon; but that is what he would have chosen.

Thorin sighed. Either way, the result would have been the same: he would have been a widower by now. And though his own son had not lived, here were his sister-sons, playing insouciant by the fire. Fíli was encouraging his brother to pile little wooden blocks ever higher; and Kíli squealed with delight every time the pile collapsed. These were his heirs. This was his family now. And considering the sorrows that had befallen his kin, Thorin knew he ought to consider himself lucky that there still _was_ a line of Durin at all, let alone a new generation of princes.

And so Thorin resolved to make an effort. And the next time that they all gathered in Dís’ rooms for an evening of music and storytelling, Thorin brought his harp; and this time he stayed and kept playing until the little ones had fallen fast asleep in their parents’ lap.

***

In truth, Thorin was not displeased that Víli should have joined the family, such as it was. His brother-in-law, besides being likeable, was also competent – inasmuch as any competence was required among the soldiers. After all, there was little enough for the soldiers to do in those days, save escorting trading caravans, guarding warehouses, and catching the occasional thief on market day.

Víli rose swiftly through the ranks, and soon became Dwalin’s right-hand man; and though his advancement was due largely to the fact that he had married the Princess, it was not entirely undeserved. Dwalin himself had promoted the young Dwarf with good grace; for after all he too thought that an easy-going and level-headed lad would be a welcome addition to the otherwise gloomy (and severely depleted) line of Durin.

But now it seemed to Thorin that his old comrade was beginning to take umbrage at the lad’s preferment. He had seemed more than usually sullen during sparring, and even when Thorin had offered to buy him a pint or two at the _Royal Oak_ , his mood did not seem to improve significantly.

“Look, Thorin, I’m not _that_ dense,” Dwalin replied testily when Thorin asked him what was the matter. “You’re obviously grooming him to take my place. I mean, s’only natural, seeing as he’s your brother-in-law and all, but still.” And with that Dwalin went into a sulk.

Thorin gave a wry smile, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You are mistaken, my friend,” said Thorin gently. “I am not grooming Víli to take your place. I am grooming him to take mine.”

Dwalin stared at him in disbelief. “You what?”

“Isn’t it obvious? My sister has borne two sons; the line of Durin has heirs enough. And Víli is a good chap. He will be able to support my sister. She will be Regent until Fíli is grown. She’s perfectly capable; and she will have the best advisors she could wish for.”

“What are you talking about? Not that rubbish about reclaiming the Mountain?”

“The succession is secured, and the people will be in good hands,” said Thorin reasonably.

But Dwalin having none of this. “And how do you propose to go about it?” he growled. “Hm? Are you going to wander off with your axe and a bagful of _cram_ and a song on your lips? Is that it? Are you going to stand at the gate of Erebor and shout taunts at old Smaug and chop his head off when he comes out to see what the commotion is all about? Is that your plan?” Dwalin’s voice was rising, together with his temper. “Or are you planning to die a stupid and pointless death, just so that you won’t feel so bad about your father? Because if that’s what you’re planning on doing, it’ll be over my dead body! I’m not letting you wonder off to your death, d’you hear me? Don’t you dare! Don’t you bloody well dare!”

Dwalin had gone quite puce in the face, and there were tears of rage in his eyes. All around, the inn had gone silent. Thorin remained very quiet, and waited for his friend to let go of the lapels of his coat. Dwalin appeared to realise that he had been shouting. He released Thorin, and turned his attention back to his pint, looking for all the world like he wanted to disappear in it.

Thorin was a little shocked to see his friend so upset; though in truth he knew well enough that Dwalin felt hideously guilty about Thráin’s disappearance. It haunted him. Thorin sat next to his friend in silence for a while, waiting for the noise of the inn to resume – though it remained more subdued than it had been before Dwalin’s outburst.

“You’re the king, like it or not,” Dwalin rumbled at last. “The people need you.”

“Dís will manage. In any case,” Thorin added, “I’m hardly the greatest king that ever lived.”

“You do a great job.”

“I do an adequate job.”

“That’s no reason to go and jump into the dragon’s maw,” said Dwalin emphatically. “And anyway: you’d need a bloody army.”

“We used to have one. Made no difference, did it?”

Dwalin said nothing to that.

“Look…” said Thorin with a sigh, “you’re right of course. I don’t have a bloody plan. But I’ll come up with something. Maybe the Iron Hills will help.” Dwalin scoffed.

They drank in silence for a few minutes. “You really mean to go through with this, don’t you,” said Dwalin at last.

“I might as well,” Thorin answered darkly.

***

But Dwalin need not have worried: Thorin’s plan came to nought, such as it was. This time, when disaster struck, it assumed the shape of a boar. Víli went off one morning to hunt; they brought him back the same evening, bloodless and mauled. It was an ugly sight.

It had not been recklessness, or lack of skill; just sheer bad luck.

Dís went very quiet. She did not faint, exactly; though she reeled, and steadied herself again. Then she bade them put down her husband’s body, and leave her alone with it; and she locked her door.

Her sons had been hurried away so that they might be spared the ghastly sight; but Fíli had caught a glimpse of his father on a stretcher, and of blankets stained with blood. They were brought into Thorin’s study, though in truth Thorin hardly knew what to do with them. Fíli sat in one of Thorin’s great heavy oaken chairs, little legs dangling over the seat, little fists clenched, grave-eyed and tight-lipped and pale. “Is my father dead?” he asked hoarsely; and Thorin looked at him sadly, and nodded, confirming what the child already knew.

Kíli, on the other hand, was too small to understand what was going on. He only knew that something was amiss, that his mother was upset, that she was not there; and he began to cry. Thorin picked him up and carried him around and tried to soothe him; but Kíli only cried harder. “I want mummy!” he wailed.

Resigned, Thorin walked down the corridor with a screaming Kíli in his arms and a silent Fíli in tow, and went and knocked on his sister’s door.

“Sister?” he called gently.

There was no answer.

He knocked again, and waited a little.

There was not a sound from within; only Kíli’s piercing screams in Thorin’s left ear.

“Sister…Come on, open up. Your sons need you.”

Still no answer. Thorin was becoming worried. He knocked harder. “Sister, please-”

“Leave me,” came Dís’ voice, faintly, from inside.

Thorin hesitated. He had been considering breaking down the door; but there seemed to be no need for that. His sister had not harmed herself – yet. He took little Fíli by the hand, and led him and the squalling Kíli back to his study.

They sat down again in silence, save for Kíli’s screaming. Thorin still made half-hearted attempts to comfort him, to no great avail. Fíli’s eyes were filled with tears, but so far the lad had taken the news with a fortitude that amazed him. Thorin felt inordinately proud of his sister-son in that moment.

But Fíli looked up and caught his eye. “Is she going to die?” the lad asked.

Thorin swallowed. “No, of course not,” he answered. “She’s just very very sad.”

Kíli’s composure cracked. “I don’t want mummy to die too!” he wailed, and began to weep freely.

Thorin drew the lad to him and hugged him awkwardly with his free arm. “Don’t worry, little one. Dwarves can’t die of a broken heart.”

“Promise?” hiccupped Fíli.

“Promise,” said Thorin, trying to sound reassuring. _I should know_. Though there was no telling what his sister might not do to herself. Thorin was tempted once again to go and break down his sister’s door; but then he reflected that she must be allowed to grieve whichever way she chose. That was something he understood well enough.

But for now, he had two distraught children on his hands. And since he was no good at comforting them, Thorin did the only thing he knew. He entrusted Kíli to his elder brother, and told them to stay put; and he went to fetch his harp, and brought it into the study (he did not want the boys crawling all over his lady’s chamber). He tuned the instrument, then began to play.

He played the songs of home, the songs of the heath and the river and the mine; and when he had run out of those, he played the doleful songs of lost kingdoms, lost wealth, and lost kin, the songs of war and exile – and though he did not sing the words, the music of them was grim, and lapped the children who sat huddling together in their grief. He even played _The Linden Tree_ , though the song nearly drove him to tears himself. It was all he could do to soothe the little ones, but at least they cried themselves to sleep. And Thorin did not silence the strings, but let the last notes hang in the air; and he leant his head against the dark wood of the harp, and thought on this new misfortune that had befallen his house.

Thorin knew not how much time had passed; but at last he heard the door open, and his sister padded across the room and came to sit near him. Thorin dared not look at her.

“I heard you playing,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. Ah yes, the sounds did carry through the ventilation shafts. “Thank you,” she added, and nodded towards the little ones, curled together in a chair. Fíli had wrapped his arms protectively around his little brother.

Thorin sat beside his sister in silence. He would have clasped her hand, but he knew it would not have helped. Nothing would help.

“At least you have them,” said Thorin. “They’ll give you something to pretend to be strong for.”

Dís considered this. “I can’t,” she said after a while. “I have thought about it. I shall go out onto that terrace of yours, and cast myself down the mountainside. I can’t,” she said again.

“I know,” said Thorin. “But you will.”

Dís had expected something like that. At least her brother had had the decency to sound fatalistic, and not to offer glib consolation. But she wanted to lash out at him, to scream that he did not know, that he did not understand – but then she remembered that he did.

She looked at him, really looked at him; and Thorin felt uncomfortable under her gaze. She was haggard, and white as a sheet; but what he found most unnerving was her apparent calm. “My poor brother…” she said at last. “How do you live with it?”

“I don’t,” he said, not really meeting her eye.

Dís nodded distractedly, and rose to leave. Thorin never knew whether she meant to return to her chamber or to cast herself down the mountainside; for her legs buckled under her, and he quickly caught her as she fell. He held her tight; and at last Dís wept, and Thorin felt her shaking with bitter sobs, though she made hardly a sound. She wanted to scream, but she could not, on account of her sleeping lads; so instead she hugged her brother so hard it hurt, and sank her teeth into her hand until she drew blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Rohirric for 'horse'.
> 
> (2) Khuzdul for 'axe'.


	65. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, boys and girls! Sorry about the delay - Aunt Hildy had been Grappling With Canon. I take it you all remember that bit in the Appendices where it says:“The years lengthened. The embers in the heart of Thorin grew hot again…”and Tolkien just casually fast-forwards 100 years? Well, here goes.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 64**

 

In the time that followed Víli’s death, Gróa took charge, and marshalled anyone who was remotely kin to the princes to look after them, so that Dís might be allowed all the time she needed to fall apart. Of course, there were nurses to deal with the, well, practical side of things; but it was felt that the two little princes needed the warmth and comfort of kin in this ordeal.

And so the boys were passed around from Thorin to Balin to Gróin, and even to Víli’s rather rustic cousins; and when they were brought back to Thorin again, he begged Dwalin for help, hoping that the great scarred warrior would strike fear into their little hearts and that they would keep quiet. The children were fretful, for they wanted their mother; but Dwalin’s presence did not have the effect Thorin would have hoped. Instead of feeling daunted by Dwalin, they loved him, not least because he soon gave up any pretence at authority with them, and resembled nothing so much as a big playful bear.

“You’re astonishingly good with them, you know that?” Thorin told him in utter bafflement, after he had finally succeeded in putting the lads to bed. The room looked like a battlefield.

“Good with them? I let them walk all over me. Hardly the same thing.” Dwalin collapsed into a chair. “Dís will pull my head off when she snaps out of it.”

“She’ll pull all of our heads off,” said Thorin. _If she ever does snap out of it_ , he thought darkly. His sister had been lying in the dark for weeks, not talking to anyone, hardly taking any food. They had brought the boys to her a couple of times, but she was so haggard and distraught that these visits upset them more than anything else.

“How much longer d’you reckon she’ll shut herself away?” Dwalin asked. “To be honest, I don’t think we’re doing the lads a favour, passing them around like parcels. They need their mother.”

“You’re right, of course,” Thorin said; “but I don’t think the sight of her weeping all day will do them much good, either. There’s nothing for it but to give her time.”

Dwalin did not argue with that. If anybody knew, it was Thorin. The two friends sat in silence for a while, enjoying the blissful peace and quiet, now that the children were asleep. Dwalin furrowed his brow. “Thorin?” he asked.

“Hmm?” went Thorin, half-asleep himself.

“…I don’t suppose you have any ale up here?”

***

Dís did eventually emerge from her seclusion, pale, and wearing her widowhood like a royal robe. She smothered her boys with all the love she could no longer lavish on Víli, and she talked to them at length of their destiny as Durin’s heirs; and she became as fiercely protective of her cubs as a she-wolf.

She was indulgent with them, and at the same time highly demanding. But though her boys loved her, they were also full of life and mischief; and often in their youthful spirits they would devise reckless sports, quite heedless of the danger. And when they were brought back to her at last, mercifully unhurt, instead of giving them a good beating, Dís would resort to tears; and the boys would stand there shamefaced, unsure of what they had done wrong, but they would promise their dear, sad, beautiful mother that they would not get into trouble again.

Until the following day.

As for Thorin, he gratefully distanced himself from the boys again, now that their mother was there to wipe their noses and tend their grazed knees, hug them and sing them to sleep.

He simply did not have Víli’s way with them; but perhaps that was just as well. He did not wish to replace their father, or to pretend to be something he was not. In any case, Thorin felt that someone needed to drum a little sense of discipline into the lads, after Víli’s rather laissez-faire approach to parenting. And so he became once again ‘grumpy uncle Thorin’ who always had work to do, smiled seldom, and spoke sternly to his nephews about things like honour and duty - especially when they had upset their mother.

Perhaps, Thorin reflected, he ought to spend more time with Fíli, for he was, after all, his heir; but Thorin always felt a little uneasy around the lad. Had the son that Helmwyn had borne him lived, he would have looked like Fíli. And thus Thorin’s demeanour towards him was stilted, and he felt largely unable to display any of the fatherly warmth the lad might have needed. But always he looked on the child with approval, and treated him with a kind of gruff benevolence that Fíli soon came to crave.

Thorin seldom held him, or sat him on his lap, or comforted him; but he made sure that Dwalin took especial care in training him. The lad showed promise from an early age; and as he grew, his skill in handling any blade became astonishing (if, in Dwalin’s opinion, a little showy). But always, Fíli would look for approval in his uncle’s features; and when his prowess on the training-grounds earned him a nod or a smile, his young heart would swell with pride.

Thorin was pleased with Fíli’s progress. He trained hard and fought well; he had an easy manner and a bold heart. He was not very shrewd, but that would come, when he took on more responsibility. Perhaps he was not quite the heir he would have wished for, but he would do. Now, Kíli, though – that was another matter.

The down on his cheeks had ever been sparse; and though that sometimes happened in dwarflings, it was unfortunate, especially in a prince. But since he was a prince, no-one dared mock him openly, except perhaps his brother; and Thorin could only hope that the lad would grow a proper beard when he hit puberty.

Once, when the lads were still small, they had caught sight of a trade delegation from the Grey Havens. Fíli had teased his little brother, and called him an Elf on account of his lack of beard. But instead of taking offense at that, little Kíli was delighted; he was evidently quite taken by the tall folk in their shimmering silks. For weeks after that, he had pranced about the place, telling everyone that he was an Elf. Thorin had been mortified.

Mercifully, the lad grew out of it (though his beard never did). He too began training, and proved as nimble and quick as his brother; though his weapon of choice was the bow. He was skilled, and full of laughter; and he reminded Thorin rather uncomfortably of his own brother Frerin (minus the beard). Dís saw it too; and in her eldest she saw the image of her beloved husband. And her love for her sons was matched only by her suffocating fear that harm might befall them; and each day that they spent adventuring in the hills was utter agony for her.

***

Thorin was grateful for one thing at least: now that his sister had provided the line of Durin with not one, but two heirs, the elders had finally stopped pestering him with the insulting notion that he should re-marry.

After his wife’s death, some had suggested that, since the laws had already been bent to accommodate this unnatural union, they might as well go all the way and declare the marriage invalid, or pronounce an annulment, so that he could now wed someone suitable – that is to say, of dwarven race. But not only would Thorin not hear of it; he had seized the elder by his robes, and dangled him over the balustrade of the great staircase, daring him to repeat that he should posthumously repudiate his lady. There had been no more talk of an annulment after that, at least for a while; but the matter resurfaced every few years, and doubtless the elders whispered about it more often, amongst themselves.

But in the end, with the birth of two suitable heirs, the matter was dropped altogether, much to Thorin’s relief; and as for the elders, they were not displeased to bury the matter once and for all. After all, they felt that the whole episode had been an embarrassment, and was best forgotten; and they did not mention the lady of the Mark again.

Balin and Dwalin and Gróa, who had been fond of her after their own fashion, did not speak of her either, because they did not wish to grieve Thorin; and if anyone else brought the matter up, Thorin invariably retorted “I was young,” and would say no more. But whether he meant that it had been an error of his youth, or whether he meant that his youth had ended with her life, none could tell.

And the Dwarves that came after to dwell in Ered Luin, having had news of Thorin’s prosperous new dwelling in the west, sometimes heard stories that the King had briefly been wed to a lady from the race of Men, long ago, when he was young and hot-headed; but the tale seemed so implausible to them that they dismissed it as no more than a rumour.

***

Aside from the reckless behaviour of the boisterous princes, life in the Blue Mountains was largely uneventful. Thorin was well aware that this monotony was a luxury. It was the monotony of peace, and Mahal knew his people had known little enough of that. Peace was good for trade. It was good for raising children. And indeed his people increased, and prospered, and led contented lives. But even as the Dwarves of Ered Luin grew rich and numerous, so did Thorin grow restless and discontented.

It was nothing more than a vague peevishness at first; and Thorin put it down to his chronic ill-humour. And when he had had a surfeit of trade reports and council meetings and quibbling lawsuits, he would shed his sable robes, and go down into the forge, and hammer iron alongside the other smiths. He had always loved the forge, for the careful work on the hot metal focused his mind, and the ringing of hammers drowned out all the stupidity that otherwise demanded his attention. In the forge at least, Thorin felt that he was achieving something useful.

But not any more.

It was on a market day that understanding dawned on him. He had been walking among the stalls, greeting tradesmen and artisans as was his habit, watching folk of many races about their business, when the thought had occurred to him: he saw some Dwarves haggling with some wool-merchants from the Shire; and it suddenly struck him that his people would soon become as fat and slow as Hobbits, and as craven. Gone were the lords and warriors and master craftsmen of old: the Khazad were turning into well-fed shopkeepers.

Thorin returned to the forge, but it no longer brought him peace; and his blows were too strong, and he ruined the tool he was working on.

He looked around him; and in the forge, in his fellow smiths, he still perceived it: _‘Urs Abanaz_ , the fire that Mahal had kindled in the heart of the Dwarves, that they might make and fight and endure. He perceived it in the smiths, but he saw that it was dimmed: it was dimmed in his people, and it was dimmed in his own heart; and Thorin was seized by the chilling foresight that, unless he _did_ something, it would gutter and go out altogether.

And for a moment, just a moment, Thorin contemplated letting that flame go out. He could simply sit down in his great chair, and let the seasons wheel over him; and his beard would grow long, and his hair would turn grey, and when the elders had all died, there would be none to remember the greatness of the Dwarves, none to prevent his people from living their simple, mediocre lives in the simple, mediocre kingdom he had built for them. For just a moment, Thorin was tempted. After all, he had already disappointed his father; he might as well compound it all, and stay in the Blue Mountains until he died in his bed, fat and wheezing.

But then Thorin knew, and in that moment a great quiet came over him. He would reclaim the Mountain, or perish in the attempt. It was his duty. And for the first time, that duty no longer felt like a burden, a great load on his shoulders weighing him down. He understood that now. Duty was that ember, that precious flame that smouldered within him; and he would preserve it, and fan it into life, and feed it until it blazed, until it rekindled hope and pride in the hearts of his people – or until it consumed him, and he fell, and his people dwindled into obscurity and oblivion.

***

Once Thorin’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. He held fast to his goal with a single-mindedness such as he had not shown in years. He thought about it at length; he brooded on it, he dreamed of it. He spoke grandly of it to the council; he spoke passionately of it when he went to the inn with Dwalin, going on and on as he drained mug after mug. He spoke to Balin about it in deadly earnest, his brow furrowed, as his old friend nodded sceptically.

In truth, Thorin could not begin to imagine how he would go about reclaiming the Mountain. He had mulled on the problem, on and off, for most of his life; and his plans, vague as they were, had always involved leading a host to assault the dragon. He thought of Azaghâl, and wondered how many warriors could be mustered. He thought of Azaghâl, and tried to estimate how much steel could be produced to armour his troops, including war-masks such as the Dwarves of Belegost had worn of old. That would buy his men a few minutes in the face of the dragon’s wrath.

He thought of Azaghâl, and seriously considered sending envoys to the Iron Hills, and to the remnants of the Dale-men, and even to the Elvenking of Mirkwood (curse him!). Thorin’s pride rebelled at the thought; but he was desperate. He doubted whether he could muster one thousand foot-soldiers in the Blue Mountains; and every life lost would be grievous. There were so few of Durin’s folk left, so very few. Alliances might bring another two thousand men; but if the thought of begging for assistance riled him, it seemed that he had very little choice.

In any case, the venture was perilous. Even if he did succeed in convincing his old allies to lend him their strength (by dangling a large share of Thrór’s treasure, naturally), Thorin very much doubted that three thousand would stand any chance at all against the dragon. He thought of Azaghâl, and remembered that the worm Glaurung had been flightless. He remembered the Mountain smoking under the moon, and shook his head, and knew that the winged death would scatter his three thousand like ants.

***

Thorin still brooded on the matter with a heavy heart when he set off for Bree with a convoy of tradesmen. Beside the usual bales of cloth and tools and toys and trinkets, the Dwarves also brought with them a cartload of mail and weapons, concealed under the more mundane wares. To be sure, Thorin needed not have gone himself to deliver the arms; he could have entrusted that to one of the merchants. But perhaps he felt obliged to go, since oaths had been sworn, and these dealings were shrouded in some secrecy. Or perhaps he simply needed to walk, and think. Perhaps, for all that exile had felt like a smarting wound, he felt a burning urge to step onto the road again. Perhaps he felt confined in the Blue Mountains; perhaps they had begun to feel so small that a trip to Bree almost seemed like a reckless adventure into Wilderland. Perhaps he could deceive himself that, going east, he was walking in his father’s footsteps, and was going Home at last.

Thorin’s business with the Rangers was conducted at a table in a dark recess of the inn in Bree. More or less unsavoury characters habitually came and went about the place; and here at least a Dwarf and a couple of wanderers would not attract any undue attention. From the Rangers’ grim looks and grimmer hints, Thorin gathered that these folk had trouble of their own – more trouble than usual, that is. Their chieftain had been slain by Orcs a few years ago; and his heir was still a young child, and had been hurried away to safety (though where, the Rangers would not say). Thorin had enough on his mind that he cared little for the succession of the Dúnedain; though he did listen to their tale, if only to have news of the Orcs – and that news was disquieting.

At last, one of the Rangers handed Thorin a purse – not all that the Dwarves were owed, but as much as the Rangers could raise. Thorin opened the purse, and glanced at the contents. There were mostly silver coins, for gold was hard to come by for folk such as the Dúnedain. But among the coins, Thorin also saw that there were rings with heraldic devices, and star-shaped brooches, and other trinkets that seemed to be of significance, if not necessarily of value. Thorin looked up at the Men, a once proud people brought low. He was a Dwarf, and expected fair payment, and the very notion of credit irked him; but neither did he wish to humiliate these people’s pride. After all, Thorin remembered the hardships of exile all too well.

He poked around in the purse, and fished out the rings and brooches and pendants that he found among the coins; and these he handed back to the astonished Rangers. “Cart’s round the back,” Thorin rumbled.

“But the payment -” one of the Rangers began.

Thorin waved that away. “Next time,” he said; though in truth he doubted there would be a next time, as far as he was concerned. His business concluded, he rose, and turned his back on the Rangers, and strode over to the bar to have his mug refilled. Thorin might have pitied the Dúnedain, but not so much that he felt compelled to return the purse of silver coins.

He was about to join his kinsmen at their table, when he heard a booming voice calling to him over the hubbub of the room: “Master Dwarf! Sit with me awhile!” Thorin turned to see who had spoken; and there, sitting by the fire, wreathed in pipe-smoke, was the wandering wizard, Gandalf.

Thorin was startled to see the old man. He looked no different than he had six score years before; but though he did not look elvish, or _feel_ elvish, yet there had to be more to him than his appearance suggested. But if there was indeed a hidden majesty about him, he cloaked it (very effectively) in travel-stained grey robes and a long (if rather unkempt) grey beard.

Gandalf smiled genially enough, and beckoned to Thorin again. Thorin hesitated for an instant, then greeted Gandalf with a nod, walked over to him, and warily sat down at this table.

“Thorin Oakenshield! If this isn’t a pleasant surprise! I see you are doing well for yourself,” Gandalf twinkled; and Thorin wondered whether the old wizard was referring to his sober, yet costly, travelling-clothes, or whether he had been observing his transaction with the Rangers.

“Trade has been satisfactory, I’ll not deny it,” Thorin answered guardedly. He wondered what the wizard wanted, and why he was being so friendly. After all, they had not exactly warmed to each other during their previous meeting. For all that the wizard smiled, Thorin felt that the old man’s shrewd blue eyes were studying him keenly.

Indeed, Gandalf thought that Thorin looked older – greyer, broader, slower – but as he was a Dwarf, that made him more powerful, not less. And he still had that haughty and suspicious look. Gandalf sighed. The encounter was timely, very timely indeed - though it surely would not be pleasant; but he resolved to make a great effort, to be charming, so that he might woo the Dwarf for his scheme. He would try and soften him up with the usual pleasantries.

“I was grieved to hear of the lady Helmwyn’s passing,” said Gandalf, though in fact he had heard nothing of it. He merely thought it safe to assume that she was long dead.

Thorin stiffened, glared at Gandalf, and quickly changed the subject. “What news of the Mark?” he asked. “Is the land free of Orcs?”

“Oh yes, and it has been for some time now; though the current King is a greedy fool.”

“Really. And who would that be? King Brytta’s grandson?”

“Goodness me! No. Heavens, no. Now, let me see...” Gandalf started counting on his fingers. “King Brytta – cheerful soul, that one; lived to a ripe old age. Then his son, whatwashisname. Walda, that’s it. Died in an Orc ambush. Then – Folca. Got rid of the last Orcs, you know. Died in a hunting accident. And then there was Folcwine… subdued the Dunlendings… and there was that sad business with his sons and the Haradrim… and then that blockhead Fengel, I’m afraid. So there you have it,” Gandalf beamed. “King Brytta’s great-great-grandson.”

Thorin was aghast at the many generations of Men that had passed since that summer in the Mark. “I see,” he stammered. “To my shame, I must confess that I allowed our bond with the Mark to slacken, and to come undone.” He fell silent, and took a draught of ale, mostly so that he would not have say any more. Gandalf merely took this to mean that Thorin did not especially care.

A drunk began singing a rather garbled version of the _Iron and Stone_ song, and others soon joined in – each in his own key. Thorin stared gloomily into his mug, trying not to meet Gandalf’s eye.

All those of her folk who had known her were dead, thought Thorin. And most of his own folk never even knew her. She lived now only in his memory, and in the memory of the few who still remembered her – and in a lewd tavern song. Thorin grimaced. He wondered if Gandalf knew about the origin of that ballad. He also reflected that it was, ultimately, thanks to Gandalf that he and his lady had met. That was but little comfort; and yet it bound Thorin to Gandalf more than he cared to admit.

He gave the old wizard a long look. “Perhaps it is a happy chance that we should meet,” said Thorin at last; “for you have a habit of setting things in motion, do you not?” 

Gandalf chuckled. “I like to think of myself as a… facilitator. But indeed, it _is_ a happy chance that we should meet; for, you see, of late I have been giving much thought to…a very old acquaintance of yours.” Thorin raised his eyebrows. “Of the scaly variety. And the fire-breathing persuasion. Ahem.” Gandalf puffed on his pipe; but Thorin could see the keen intelligence at work beneath the old man’s jovial demeanour.

“Well?” said Thorin. “I’m listening.”


	66. Chapter 65

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’d like to say a big thank you to DJ of Thorinoakenshield dot net for nonpareil erudition and helpfulness!

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 65**

 

They could not talk of the matter openly at the inn; and besides, Thorin did not entirely trust the wizard, and wanted Balin at least to hear what he had to say. And so Thorin invited Gandalf to travel with him back to the Blue Mountains, where they might talk freely and at length.

Gandalf cheerfully accepted the invitation. “I shall be glad to see your finished halls, Master Dwarf!” he exclaimed. “Indeed, I fancy they must be rather splendid by now.”

“My halls? Call them that if you will; though they are but poor lodgings in exile,” rumbled Thorin, who suspected mockery in Gandalf’s words. Besides, he resented being called ‘Master Dwarf’ – especially by one who should have known better.

***

They journeyed together along the westbound road that cut through the Shire. It was an easy journey, and the road was safe, and the weather clement enough; and Thorin found himself telling Gandalf of all the travails of Durin’s folk since the coming of the dragon. Some of this tale was already known to Gandalf, but by no means all; and the wizard listened with great interest, for he was not one to neglect any detail, however insignificant it might have seemed. He kept his ears open, and his mouth closed, merely encouraging Thorin now and then with an appreciative ‘Ah!’ or a ‘Hrm’ of commiseration.

Indeed, Thorin needed little prompting, and found himself telling the wizard much that he seldom spoke about, including his hopes and fears. Thorin was surprised that he should speak so candidly to the wizard, for after all he was of a prudent nature, and not one to pour his heart out to associates of dubious character – especially on such short acquaintance. Then again, he thought, perhaps the time for prudence was past. He had been casting around for a plan to reclaim the Mountain, and Gandalf had crossed his path when he had been entirely at a loss. If this was his chance, then Thorin would seize it.

This is not to say that Thorin had no misgivings. The wizard rubbed him entirely the wrong way. Dwarves were plain-speaking folk; and Gandalf – well, Gandalf was not. He was apparently fond of making vague yet ominous pronouncements, and hinting at momentous events being set in motion; and Thorin seethed gently, and swore to himself that if the wizard did not speak more plainly when they had reached the Blue Mountains, he would make him eat his hat.

And then, between two sibylline references to impending doom, Gandalf would seemingly interrupt their talk every five minutes to greet some Hobbit or other. And greeting them in passing was not enough; the wizard frequently stopped the whole trading-caravan to wish a good day to pumpkin-growers and pig-farmers, discussed the weather with them, complimented them on their produce, listened to gossip about their neighbours, and gave the impression of genuinely enjoying himself. Thorin seethed some more.

“I honestly cannot fathom why you seek the society of these rustic halfwits,” grumbled Thorin when they had set off again after the umpteenth interruption. He was beginning to suspect that, for all the portentous airs he was pleased to give himself, the wizard was not taking this matter altogether seriously.

“When you have been in my line of business for as long as I have, Master Dwarf,” replied Gandalf with thinly-veiled impatience, “you will find that there is no such thing as a small piece of knowledge – indeed, that humble folk oft see sense when the counsels of the Wise are confused.”

“Perhaps I should dispense with your services, then, and seek advice from a Hobbit instead,” said Thorin none too kindly.

Gandalf harrumphed, and the dwarven caravan set in motion once more; and in a moment of pique, Gandalf was tempted to take Thorin at his word. That would serve the proud lordling right.

***

Thorin was in a foul mood by the time they reached the Blue Mountains; but he wasted no time in summoning his closest and most trusted advisors. Balin and Dwalin were there, of course; and so was Glóin. He had taken over the family firm since Gróin had passed away; and when Gróa too had died, he had filled her shoes as Thorin’s chief financial advisor (but though he was shrewd enough, and good with numbers, Thorin rather felt that he lacked his aunt’s keen business acumen).

Jugs of wine and a cold supper were brought; and then the conspirators closeted themselves in Thorin’s study. Thorin did not want anyone else interfering; not Dís, and not the few remaining elders. They would invariably argue and debate, and nothing would ever get decided. Thorin looked at Balin and Dwalin; and it occurred to him that, for all that he had spent most of his life at loggerheads with the elders, the three of them were now inching into that category. All the others were dying off. Soon there would be no-one left who had actually been born under the Mountain.

Not that the wizard was saying anything very encouraging. “Of course,” Gandalf declared, “reclaiming the Mountain will be absurdly difficult, and it is highly unlikely that you shall succeed.”

“So why are we even having this conversation?” rumbled Glóin, already quite puce in the face.

“I said it would be absurdly difficult, and highly unlikely; but I did not say it was impossible. Many unlikely things occur all the time, Master Glóin; and I daresay we may even be able to improve our odds a little – to ensure that we have luck on our side, if you prefer.” The wizard puffed on his pipe; and Thorin wished he would come out with whatever plan he had, and have done. “But do not hope to conquer the dragon by force of arms,” Gandalf went on; “for that, I would guess, is what you had intended, is it not?”

“Well, how else do you propose that we should go about it?” said Thorin irritably.

“I fancy…” - Gandalf trailed off, and thoughtfully puffed on his pipe once more - “…I fancy that this venture might be achieved through wit and stealth.”

“Aye, that’s rich!” sneered Dwalin. “Perhaps we should creep up on old Smaug, have a nice chat with him, and make him see the error of his ways?”

“Do not be a fool,” Gandalf snapped; “and do not mistake me for one, either! I am not suggesting that any of you should bandy words with a dragon. That would certainly take more wit than you have, Master Dwalin; indeed, more wit than all of you put together.”

“Then speak plainly, Master Wizard – if indeed you can,” growled Thorin, whose patience with the old man was wearing thin. “What is this clever plan of yours? And will we stupid Dwarves be able to execute it?”

“I wonder…” Gandalf mused aloud - _puff, puff_ ; he was quite wreathed in smoke by now. “Indeed, I am afraid you are right, Thorin. This scheme will require someone altogether more nimble and clever than you heavy-footed Dwarves. And I believe I have just the fellow you need.”

“Who is he? A warrior? A dragon-slayer? A wizard? Not an Elf, I hope?” The Dwarves assailed Gandalf with questions; but the wizard merely sat there, smoking, with a mischievous smile on his lips.

“My heart tells me…” he said at last, “…that Hobbits shall have a part to play in this after all.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence; then the Dwarves erupted.

***

Thorin sat, thoughtful, while the others squabbled.

 _Wit and stealth_. The words had stirred something in Thorin’s memory, something that had long lain buried deep.

He remembered an evening long ago, when he had sat in Meduseld with his lady, talking of dragons. He remembered that she had looked sad, and very lovely. He wished he also could remember what she had said. He vaguely recalled that she had spoken of Azaghâl, and Frám, and the man Túrin. She had advised him not to seek an open confrontation, but to try and trick the worm somehow, to flatter his vanity, to find out his vulnerable spot. To strike when he least expected it.

Perhaps, Thorin thought, perhaps this was a sign, the sign he had been waiting for. A sign that his life, his love, and his long mourning had had some purpose after all.

Thorin rose, and went to pluck the wizard’s weather-stained robe. “A word alone if you please, Master Gandalf,” he said; and the old man followed him towards the fireplace, a few steps away from the others.

“There is one thing I need to know, if I am to trust you,” Thorin asked under his breath. “Why would you help us? “I can guess it is not merely sympathy for the plight of my people. I pray you tell me plainly: what is _your_ stake in this?”

“I would rid Middle-Earth of this beast,” Gandalf answered. “For though he sleeps now, what terrible devastation he might wreak, should he ally himself with an evil power, I dread to think.”

Gandalf had spoken in earnest for once; but Thorin grimaced. If anything, this lofty design of the wizard’s riled him. “Aye,” Thorin growled, “you never do aught but for some grand, noble purpose; is that not so? And you would use me to achieve your ends. You would move the Free Folk around like chessmen on a board! Well, here is something I have long meant to ask you. What was your _purpose_ , Gandalf, when you advised the lady Helmwyn to send for us? What scheme, what grand design for the future of Middle-Earth did you have in mind then?”

Thorin’s voice was angry and bitter; but Gandalf guessed it was his grief that spoke, and when he answered his voice was gentle.

“No purpose, other than to help a friend in need,” said the wizard. “Indeed, I thought that Durin’s folk and the Rohirrim might become friendly, for I find they have much in common; and that such friendship would be beneficial to both, and strengthen the Free Peoples against their common enemy. But I could not have foreseen that the Riders would find _you_ , Thorin. Nor could I have foreseen that you and the lady would love each other - and indeed that is something I still wonder at.”

Thorin shot him a black glance from under his stormy brows. “You were always pleased to scoff.”

In truth, Gandalf very much doubted that the lady Helmwyn had been anything but unhappy, and Thorin anything but a possessive brute who had bullied her into subservience and quelled her spirit. But he was willing to admit that Thorin must have loved her, after his own fashion – in that covetous way Dwarves had. “I may wonder at your love,” he said, “but I no longer doubt it; indeed, I once did you a great unkindness by doing so. I hope you can forgive me.” Gandalf nodded to Thorin, and put on his best, most conciliatory, most candid blue-eyed look.

Thorin studied him suspiciously; but the wizard contrived to look and sound so sincere that Thorin almost believed him. Almost. But Thorin was weary with care and grief, and said nothing for a while, but gazed unseeing into the fire. He needed to think; but he also doubted whether any amount of thinking would bring him more clarity. Soon, Thorin would have to make a decision; and he would have to trust to fate, wherever it might lead.

“I do not trust you, Master Gandalf, or your purposes,” he said at last; “and I guess that there is much that you are withholding. But my lady trusted you, and so will I heed your counsel, for her sake – and for her sake alone.”

***

Thorin walked back towards the others; and they looked at him expectantly. He knew he must sway them, though his own heart was full of doubt; but he also knew that he must act now, while he had the chance, or be forever known as the King who did nothing to reclaim Erebor. Even a failed attempt would be better than no attempt at all; and at least this way, Thorin reflected, he would not risk the lives of hundreds of his kin.

“I have decided to heed the wizard’s counsel,” Thorin said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We shall dare this; and fortune may yet reward our boldness.”

“But Thorin…” Balin said, “what hope is there?”

“With or without hope, I must attempt it.”

Balin gave Thorin a look that pierced his heart; but Thorin felt it was too late, much too late to turn the tide of fate.

“My friends!” he spoke to them. “It has been one hundred years since Thráin set out to reclaim the Mountain. One hundred years! Shall it be said that he perished for nothing? Shall it be said of us in later years that we did nothing, and were content to let the Mountain slip out of our grasp?” Thorin’s shoulders straightened, and his voice grew stronger; indeed, he was convincing himself as much as the others. “My friends, I ask you: if not now, then when? We are the last generation to have seen Erebor with our own eyes. The elders have died. We are the last that remember. Should we leave this task to those who come after? Do you think they will rise from their quiet lives for the sake of old tales? Already now, of all the Dwarves I have spoken to, all too many have looked away, and made excuses, and said the task was too great. Only a few, the very fewest, have answered the call with a gleam in their eye. I have been unable to raise more than a handful of Dwarves for this venture; and save for you two,” he looked at Balin and Dwalin, “all of them were born in exile – miners, opportunists, dreamers perhaps; they go not to reclaim a home, but a distant tale of wealth and glory.” Glóin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Perhaps I have left this too late. In all likelihood, we shall fail, and our people will dwindle, and forget the works of their fathers, and the pride and dignity of what they once were; and Durin’s folk shall be little better than Halflings. But at the very least I shall _try_.”

Gandalf rolled his eyes; but Thorin’s words seemed to have made an impression on his kinsmen. He had spoken of honour, rather than hope; but perhaps that was precisely why the Dwarves were so moved. They rose, misty-eyed; and one by one they swore an oath to Thorin. They had little hope, or none; but they would follow him because they loved him.

Gandalf, naturally, thought to himself that Dwarves were prone to becoming rather sentimental where vast piles of treasure were involved.

“Very well,” said the wizard. “It is decided, then. Be ready to depart soon – very soon. But do not speak of this to anyone, save the few companions who will join you on this quest! Our hope lies in speed, and secrecy; and news like this has a way of travelling.”

“May I not even warn my kin, and take my leave of them, and make the necessary arrangements, in the event that I should not return?” asked Thorin.

“Did you not tell me that your father had been repeatedly assailed on the road, though he had not breathed a word of what he intended to anyone?” said Gandalf. Thorin shot Balin and Dwalin an inquiring look; and they nodded sheepishly. “Well then!” said Gandalf. “You don’t want news like this getting around. Warm whom you must; but remember, there are many eyes watching the Mountain, and they will expect Thorin, son of Thráin to come marching upon it sooner or later. The longer you can keep your departure secret, the better!”

Thorin swallowed. He had already spoken of his plans to half the Dwarves in Ered Luin – to say nothing of the clientele at the Royal Oak. In any case, the disappearance of the King would hardly go unnoticed. “You have my word,” he said, not really meeting the wizard’s eye; “we shall make our preparations in the utmost secrecy.”

“Good. Make sure you do! I have business to attend to; but we shall meet again very soon. I shall send word. Farewell for now! I will see myself out. And remember what I said – wit and stealth!” And with that the old wizard swept from the room, leaving the rather dumbfounded Dwarves wondering what they had just let themselves in for.

Thorin remembered something that had been nagging at the back of his mind. “What was that he said about involving a Halfling?”

***

Gandalf shuffled down the low corridor, stooping and pensive.

He had a feeling; and over the years he had learnt to trust his feelings, however absurd they might seem. But he still had no clear idea of how to go about this business. Involving Hobbits, hm, yes, that might prove amusing; and it would provide a welcome element of the _unexpected_ which, in Gandalf’s experience, could be a powerful tool to foil the plans of the Enemy. If indeed the Enemy was stirring again, which Gandalf had long suspected, then perhaps the unexpected was just what was needed to guide the hand of Providence.

But as for the _how_ …

He bumped his head on an archway, and swore mildly.

Gandalf needed to think.

He ducked under the archway, straightened up gratefully, and made for the great staircase. Dwarves stared at him as he passed, for ragged wanderers were an unusual sight in Thorin’s halls; but the wizard greeted them affably, and continued on his way.

He strode energetically towards the door – and stopped. There were many statues that stood watchful in the great hall; but this one had caught his eye. He turned to look at it. The inscription on its base read:

THRÁIN

SON OF THRÓR

SON OF DÁIN

Gandalf looked up at the imposing statue; and for all that the face looked rather generic, as dwarven statues invariably did, he saw that Thráin had had the striking Durin nose, and markings on his brow, and that his left eye was blinded.

Gandalf stood before the statue, and remembered what Thorin had told him of Thráin’s disappearance on the edge of Mirkwood; and recognition and understanding blossomed gently in his mind. He needed to think; but he also knew better than to force his thoughts into order. An idea was forming; but it was as yet only a gossamer thing, and he knew it would vanish if he stretched out his hand to it too soon.

He needed to think; but not here. He would go to the Shire for a few days, for that land soothed his humour, and also always helped remind him what he was doing it all for. There he would sit and drink and smoke and let his thoughts decant.

But he had a mind to go and call on a particular Hobbit of his acquaintance. He had been a fine adventurous lad; and it would not take too much to rouse the tookish side of him. Yes, he would do nicely. He would do very nicely indeed.

***

Thorin told his sister in confidence what he intended. She went very pale; but although she dreaded losing her brother, and Balin, she felt quite capable of ruling in her brother’s stead until the outcome of his quest was decided – one way or the other. Besides, she felt as convinced as he was that the time had come.

“May Mahal guide you, and shield you, and lend you strength,” she said.

Thorin looked gratefully upon his stern, handsome sister. He framed her face in his hands, and smiled, and touched his brow to hers. “May he watch over you, little gem,” he said, though she had long outgrown that nickname. “Over you, and over your sons.”

“Fíli isn’t ready to become King, you know,” she said.

“I know. But you will be there to counsel him. I have no fear.”

They stayed like that, close, for a little while; and Thorin felt Dís hesitate – but at last she said: “I am proud of you, brother.” And those words almost broke Thorin’s heart, for in that moment he realised how much he had longed to hear them.

***

Sleep would not come, and Thorin found himself staring into the silent dark. He ought to have been afraid, he ought to have despaired at the impossibility of this undertaking; and perhaps he was afraid, and perhaps he did despair. But he also felt a strange eagerness to depart, a desire to go forth, and to fight, and to _do_. To think that he had almost given up on himself; but now the ember in his heart burned bright once more - though not with hope, exactly. Nay, it was not hope; it was a lucid acceptance of his fate. And he would meet it proudly, straight-backed and sword in hand.

He remembered feeling this before, this grim, almost joyous fatalism. It was so long gone that those days seemed to belong to another life, another Thorin altogether. But then he thought no – the Mountain, the dragon, exile, war, love, all those bright, terrible things – that was who he truly was. That was when he had truly lived. Everything that had happened since had been mere stagnation. He had been asleep for a hundred years or more; but now he had woken up.

At last he rose, and threw on his sable robes; and taking a lamp, he walked down deserted flights of stairs, unlocked an iron gate, and let himself into the crypt.

Thorin needed to talk with his wife.

He stepped into the chill, silent vault, and stood by his lady’s tomb; and in the flickering light of the lamp, the delicate likeness seemed so lifelike that Thorin’s heart tightened painfully. He ran his fingers over the coils of marble hair, and gazed down at the marble face; and for a moment, as ever when he visited the crypt, he wondered whether to kiss the marble brow, for he was well aware of the utter pointlessness of showing affection to a stone effigy. In the end he did lean over the statue, and kissed the thin scar below its hairline, and rested his forehead against the cold stone. It brought him little comfort.

Thorin sat down on the floor of the crypt and huddled against the sarcophagus, in his preferred place by the panel with the linden tree. He gazed at the image of his younger self, in the summer of his life so many years ago; and he traced the image of his lady, carved with elvish grace, as he had done so many times.

“My lady,” he whispered at last, “now do I need your counsel more than ever. I go now on a wild venture; and it seems likely that I shall not return, one way or the other.

“I do not think I have truly lived since your passing, my love. I have merely endured; and I have borne my duty to my people as well as I could. But now that the years have lengthened, I perceive that I must attempt this deed, and fulfil the tale of my days. The task was bequeathed to me, and now that my people thrive may I dare it, and perhaps win some renown yet. Most likely, I shall perish, and make an ignominious end like Thráin, and Thrór before him; but I have little enough to lose, and shall meet such an end as awaits me without fear.

“This is no leave-taking, my lady; for wherever you are now, you shall be with me as much, or as little, in the Wild as you are here. But I would have your blessing. You counselled me once to resort to wit and stealth. Alas, I have little of either; but attempt this I must. You would ask whether I do this for my people, or for myself, would you not? Well, if I succeed, both my people and myself shall profit from this; and if I fail, it shall be no great loss to them, for I shall risk only my own life, and the few that follow me do so willingly. It may well be a fool’s errand; but since we are as unlikely to achieve this with small numbers as with a great host, at least I shall not be leading hundreds of my kin into needless peril.

“This was ever my fate, lady, and my purpose; but I hope that I shall at least make a proud end, that I may stand before my fathers, and before you, without shame.” And once again he asked himself whether she had been admitted to the Halls of Waiting, or whether the gods had remained unmoved by their plight, and her spirit had dissolved like a mist borne away by the wind, and was gone.

No answer came from the statue. No answer ever came. Thorin sat there for a while longer; then at last he rose, touched the statue’s smooth marble jaw one last time, and walked out of the crypt.

***

And then there was the matter of his nephews.

Somehow, they had heard, or guessed, what Thorin intended, and had come to him, fresh-faced and eager, and announced their intention of coming with him. Thorin, who had been in the midst of his preparations, and had actually tried to maintain some degree of secrecy about his departure, had hidden his face in his palm and sighed. _Those damned ventilation shafts_ , he thought. He berated his sister-sons for sneaking around and eavesdropping, and ordered them to stay at home and support their mother while she ruled in his stead. But they merely grinned as he spoke; and Thorin knew that he had already lost.

He sighed again, and told himself that, after all, the lads were good fighters, if untried – and it might actually prove rather useful to have a pair of sneaks and eavesdroppers in the company, all things considered.

“Very well. But _only_ on the condition that you two behave yourselves,” he had said, without too much hope. “And now, off you go and tell your mother.” The lads ran off eagerly to break their mother’s heart, and Thorin sat down heavily, and braced himself against his sister’s wrath.

He did not have to wait long.

“What do you think?” he told Dís when she came storming into his rooms. “Of course I forbade them to come. They said they would follow all the same. What am I supposed to do – chain them up?”

“What sort of hare-brained scheme is this, anyway?” Dís raged, her previous talk with her brother quite forgotten. “You want to wander off into Wilderland, just a handful of you? You want to cross the Misty Mountains that are crawling with Orcs -”

“We slaughtered them, sister, or have you forgotten?” _Aye. And the remainder went to raid the Mark_.

“And do you not think the Orcs had enough time to spawn again? Do not take me for a fool, brother; I too have heard the reports. And in the unlikely event that you _do_ cross the mountains – _assuming_ that you reach our home, half a world away – what then? What will you do? Bang on the Front Gate with your bare fist? Throw rocks at the dragon?”

 _You did not object so when it was only_ my _life at stake_ , thought Thorin bitterly. “I have no armies, sister; therefore I must go myself, with such as would follow me.”

“My sons are too young!”

 _Frerin was younger_ , thought Thorin. _I was younger_. And Mahal knew that, though Frerin and himself had been almost half Fíli and Kíli’s age at Azanulbizar, they had already been twice as grown-up - though he did not say it aloud. “You were the one who was always telling them tales about Erebor, saying ‘one day, my sons, we shall return there!’ Can you blame them for wanting to see it with their own eyes?”

“Just because you have no sons of your own does not give you the right to sacrifice mine!”

Thorin said nothing to that; though his sister’s words stung as though she had struck him. Perhaps Dís realised that she had overstepped the mark, for she came closer to her brother, and gave him a look of entreaty, and spoke quietly: “I cannot lose them too.”

Thorin made no answer; and Dís wept.

“At least leave Kíli behind!” she pleaded.

“As if those two could be separated,” said Thorin; and Dís knew that he was right. “It is their choice,” said Thorin; and Dís knew that she would not be able to hold her sons back. “Besides,” Thorin added “- they are the only ones who still believe in this – who still believe in me. Balin and Dwalin are merely humouring me like they humoured Thráin; and the others are doing it for the gold. But the lads believe.”

There was another moment’s silence, broken only by Dís’ sobs.

“Do you think I am as mad as father was?” asked Thorin at last.

Dís did not answer at once. “Oh, brother…,” she sighed. “I have spent so many years thinking of returning to the Mountain, of restoring our pride and our greatness, like in the dim memories of my girlhood…I have spent so many years hoping that you and Father would retake Erebor. I have spent so many years in bitterness, _waiting_ for you to undertake something, rather than sit brooding on your chair like a figure carven in stone. But do you know, brother? I find now that kin is more precious than gold. I find that our home is here.” She grasped his arms and looked him in the eye. “Stay, brother. Do not take my sons from me.”

Thorin gave a bitter smile. To hear his sister speak thus! “I have no choice, sister. It is my duty.”

Dís let go of him. “Where was your duty when you wed that southern girl?” _Not that again_ , Thorin thought. “You chose to forget your duty then – forget it now! Let us _live_ , brother!”

“It is my duty,” said Thorin again, “and the only legacy I shall ever have. I shall attempt the deed.”

“But what of my sons?” Dís wailed. “Have we not suffered enough? Brother!”

“Talk to your sons, and see whether you can sway them with your tears and entreaties. I could not change their minds.”

“They think it’ll all be a jolly adventure, like a hike in the hills!”

“They will learn.” They were grown lads. To be sure, all Fíli and Kíli had ever known was hunting, training, and a little light work in the forge; but they could not be sheltered forever. Royal princes must learn the ways of war; and the line of Durin did not spare its sons.


	67. Chapter 66

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 66**

 

And so Thorin Oakenshield had set out from the Blue Mountains. He did not expect he would see them again; but in truth, that was no great wrench for him. He was weary of the place, desperately weary; and though it was bound up with memories, both sweet and bitter, Thorin was not displeased to shed his narrow life at last. He would go out into the world once more, and feel the wind and the rain on his cheeks, and gaze upon the harsh vastness of Wilderland. Once more he would lay eyes upon the rearing flanks of the Mountain that haunted his dreams.

Or so he had told himself.

As a matter of fact, Thorin’s mood had already soured by the time he left his halls. For all that he had tried to keep his departure a secret, he had evidently not been very successful ( _so much for wit and stealth_ , he thought); and he perceived in his people various degrees of commiseration, amusement, disapproval, or indifference. To cap it all, he had had to face his sister’s silent, reproachful sorrow; for of course there had been no talking his nephews out of it.

Thorin’s small company had set out in the middle of the night, so that they might go unnoticed for a little while; but already Fíli and Kíli were singing and laughing, which only encouraged the others to do the same. _No wonder Thráin left without saying a word to anyone_ , Thorin thought, feeling that the solemnity of his undertaking was already being undermined.

Not that his companions were all necessarily the type he would have chosen; but he would have to make do. He had had to bring a couple of stoneworkers, that they might clear away the rubble at Erebor’s gate, or worm their way through some ventilation shaft (for they would have to gain entrance to the Mountain somehow). At first, Thorin had asked his old companions, who had made the long voyage to Rohan with him many years before. Old Andvari would have come, but for the fact that his knees had gone stiff; Regin had squarely refused. Hogni was dead; and if Snorri had always been a little odd, his mind now wandered to such an extent that taking him along was unthinkable.

In the end, besides his kinsmen, Thorin had picked a few distant relatives of his, and some even more distant relatives of Andvari’s. None of them had fought at Azanulbizar; though exile had seen to it that they could hold their own in a scrap. The assembled company was a rather motley affair, but Thorin vaguely hoped that his associates’ varied – ahem – _talents_ might prove useful on their journey.

They filed along the eastbound road, warriors in new mail and miners with their pickaxes, their ponies as laden with baggage as if they were a trading-caravan. The absurdity of the whole undertaking was becoming increasingly apparent to Thorin with every step they took towards the Shire. The pleasant green country of little fields and prosperous villages irked him; for it reminded him what he had let himself in for. That bothersome wizard had talked him into taking a Halfling along.

A fine company they would make! King Thorin II Oakenshield and a handful of ill-assorted Dwarves, being led by a ragged conjuror in a patched robe, and with an absurd, plump little Hobbit-fellow in tow.

Thorin tried to picture it, and groaned inwardly. _No wonder Thráin decided to go alone,_ thought Thorin again, and cursed himself for not doing the same. The task would have been impossible for him alone, but he doubted it would prove any less impossible the way Gandalf intended. And at least he would not have had to put up with a bunch of jovial amateurs, a cantankerous wizard, and a wretched Halfling.

***

“Mr Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf had introduced him.

Thorin’s piercing gaze bored into the Hobbit, who squeaked. “He certainly looks it,” Thorin rumbled none too kindly; and stomped off to join the others in the pantry. Parlour. Dining-room. Whatever the wretched room was called.

The Dwarves crowded the Hobbit’s parlour, bumping into spindly little tables and knocking over vases. They sat down where they could, and the chairs creaked ominously under their weight. Mr Baggins looked horrified. The Dwarves leaned back very gingerly, and dared hardly move after that. If a chair broke, the Hobbit might faint.

When Gandalf had spoken of a professional burglar, Thorin had pictured someone a little more – well – disreputable. But there was nothing disreputable about Mr. Baggins. Or anything professional, for that matter. Thorin strongly suspected that this fussy little person was a gentlehobbit of leisure who had never done a decent day’s work in his entire life. Thorin might have made allowances for a disreputable Hobbit, if the fellows were indeed as light-footed as Gandalf claimed; but this? This was ridiculous.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Thorin felt trapped in this burrow. The place was narrow, and cluttered with all manner of flowery crockery, little napkins, porcelain animals – Sweet Mahal, there was even a dwarven-made clock, of the sort that had a little songbird inside. Their host pottered around, getting quite flustered, and offered them tea and scones in a way that was meant to convey strong disapproval. This was entirely lost on the Dwarves, who agreed that the scones were rather passable, if slightly niggardly. Gandalf was blowing smoke rings and laughing merrily, looking for all the world as though he felt entirely at home in this place – though Thorin rather suspected the joke was on him.

“Ahem,” Gandalf began. “Gentlemen, if I might call this meeting to order…”

There was a certain amount of shuffling, and the sound of a breaking teacup. The Hobbit winced.

Gandalf began to outline the purpose of the quest, presumably for the benefit of the Hobbit, for all the Dwarves present knew well enough what was at stake here. Mr Baggins seemed extremely reluctant to have anything to do with any of this; but Thorin watched with grudging fascination how the wizard skilfully ignored the Hobbit’s objections, and enlisted him seemingly against his better judgment.

Gandalf had a way of presenting the venture as a wholesome, entertaining and educational journey that any self-respecting Took should be only too pleased to embark upon (what was a Took? wondered Thorin impatiently). But for all his euphemising, Gandalf could not quite conceal the fact that the outing might, at some point, sooner or later, in all likelihood, involve an encounter with a live, gigantic, fire-breathing dragon.

The Hobbit fainted.

Thorin hid his face in his hands. A Halfling! How had he let himself be persuaded to lumber himself with a Halfling? A soft little creature who had blanched at the sight of them, and then proceeded to faint at the mere mention of the dragon! The Dwarves stared dubiously at their host, who lay crumpled on the rug, before one of them attempted to revive him. The clock above the mantelpiece chimed the hour, and a little magpie came out whistling above the dial. Thorin stared balefully at the thing. A thieving magpie. He felt like the whole world was making a mockery of his quest.

Thorin had simmered all evening. He had fumed. He had come close to reaching the boil, like a black kettle that had been left unattended on the fire. He had been a hair’s breadth away from telling Gandalf just what he could do with that ridiculous scheme of his. But this was the last straw. “I’ve had enough,” said Thorin. “Come on, lads; we’re leaving!” There was some more shuffling as the Dwarves rose cautiously from their chairs, and Thorin was prevented from making as sweeping an exit as he would have wished. “I do not like being swindled, Master Wizard,” Thorin growled for good measure while his associates struggled to their feet. “You would peddle this so-called burglar to me; but I am not yet so great a fool that I do not know a rabbit from a fox!”

The old man gave Thorin a sharp look, but did not reply at once; he puffed on his pipe for a few moments, then shrugged. “Well, it is as you wish, Master Dwarf,” he said affably. “If I cannot persuade you of this course of action, well, you must try your luck as you think best.” Thorin felt a little diffident, as he had expected Gandalf to say more; but he nodded to his companions, and they began to file past the wizard, over the prone Hobbit, and out of the parlour.

“However…” Gandalf added, almost as an afterthought, “…before you leave -” _puff, puff_ “- I have new… elements that you might wish to consider.”

And from out of his sleeve he pulled a parchment and a silver key.

***

All the others had gone to sleep wherever space could be found - and indeed there were a fair many rooms in this burrow. Thorin had wondered idly why the Hobbit had so many spare rooms if he so manifestly disliked visitors; but to tell the truth, Thorin had other, graver matters preying on his mind.

The ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece and the crackling of the fire in the hearth were the only sounds in the silent parlour (that, and some distant snoring). Thorin stared into the flames, a mug of cooling peppermint tea untouched on the table in front of him. Thorin felt sick.

“So that is how my father died,” he said at last; “broken and raving in a dungeon.”

Gandalf sat in a shadowy corner, wreathed in pipe-smoke, immobile and seemingly asleep, but for the fact that his eyes were keen under his bushy brows. He was studying Thorin intently.

Thorin had known that his father must long have been dead; and he had imagined many terrible ends that his father might have met. But if Thorin had thought that knowledge of his father’s fate might bring him some measure of peace, he had been mistaken. The knowledge of what had befallen Thráin was bitter.

Thorin thought it had been rather callous of Gandalf to spring that on him in a Hobbit’s dining-room. For effect. In front of all the others.

“How long have you known?” Thorin asked.

“Only a few days!” Gandalf chuckled jovially. “Though I have carried the map and key in my satchel for over ninety years.” Thorin dared not think of the unpleasant contents of the wizard’s satchel. “But it was not until a few days ago that I assembled all the pieces of the jigsaw, as it were – before I guessed that the desperate Dwarf I had found in the dungeons was none other than Thráin, son of Thrór!” Gandalf puffed on his pipe, and the haze around him thickened. “It is curious that you did not know of the existence of these things, Thorin. Your father never mentioned…?”

Thorin glared at the wizard. No, his father had never told him of the map and key to the secret door. “Dwarves are secretive folk,” he rumbled, by way of an explanation; but in his heart Thorin already knew the answer – he had been a disappointment to his father. He had forfeited his father’s trust.

That hurt, but it was nothing new. There was something else that worried Thorin. “What I do not understand is – why did this dark sorcerer torment my father for so long?” he stammered. “Why keep him alive, if not to take the map and key from him? What did the Necromancer want with Thráin, if not the secret that would lead him to Erebor’s treasures?”

Gandalf considered the answer for a few moments. “It is my guess…” he said at last, very quietly, as if he hesitated to speak of this aloud, “…it is my guess that this so-called Necromancer desired something else – something precious that your father had in his possession.” Gandalf watched for Thorin’s reaction. “My guess is that Thráin possessed a Ring – the last of the Seven Rings of the Fathers of the Dwarves.”

Thorin stared at the wizard in disbelief, as the enormity of his words sank in. “You say my father possessed the Ring? But - but - I thought it had been lost, or had never been more than legend!”

“Indeed no!” answered Gandalf. “ _The last of the seven_ , he kept saying; and knowing that this was Thráin, this is the only explanation. It must have been passed secretly down Durin’s line, from father to son, for thousands of years. I would venture that it accounts for the great wealth of Durin’s folk - and for their great misfortunes!” Thorin thought of the dragon, and said nothing. “Thrór must have given it to his son,” Gandalf went on, “before he left on his desperate errand to Moria; and Thráin must have kept it secret through war and exile ever since.”

“Aye, that is how it must have been,” said Thorin darkly. “Thrór gave the ring to my father before he left - but when his turn came, my father did not give it to me. I knew nothing of this heirloom.”

Thorin saw the look of pity on the old wizard’s face; and indeed, Gandalf fancied he almost felt sorry for the proud, irascible Dwarf.

“He asked me to give you the map and key,” said Gandalf mildly.

“I thought you said he had forgotten my name,” Thorin objected.

“He had – and indeed he had forgotten his own; but this he did not forget. He did not forget that he had a son.”

Thorin brooded on that; and Gandalf wondered if his words had been any comfort to the Dwarf.


	68. Chapter 67

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 67**

 

Had Thorin been honest with himself, he would have had to admit that this was a fair valley. There was good rock here, and handsome cliffs, and high waterfalls that glittered in the sun, and filled the valley with the music of rushing water. The Mountains reared their white heads beyond; but in that sheltered place the air was mild, and sweet with the scent of trees and summer meadows.

Had Thorin been honest with himself, he might have liked the place, and rested there, and gathered strength for the next stage of his journey.

But Thorin was peevish. This might have been a perfectly good place, but it was entirely ruined by Elves.

“How much longer must we stay here?” Thorin grumbled. “It is almost midsummer!”

Gandalf sat at his ease in one of those spindly elvish garden-chairs, contentedly sipping a glass of wine. “I take it you are not finding your stay in Elrond’s house profitable? Or enjoyable?”

“No.” For all that the younger Dwarves had enjoyed splashing around in the swift mountain-brooks and basking on their green banks, Thorin’s companions were becoming bored and restless, and he the most bored and restless of them all.

The wizard sat back, and pulled his hat down to shade his face from the sun. “We shall stay, Master Dwarf, until we are rested, and have recovered our strength.” The Dwarf’s pacing was getting on his nerves. He wished Thorin would go and pace elsewhere, and let him have a nap in peace and quiet.

“Speak for yourself,” growled Thorin. “You might enjoy the comforts of this elvish inn, but the rest of us shall starve if we stay here much longer.” Meat had not featured prominently on Elrond’s table.

Gandalf snorted. “Dwarves are made out of base matter indeed, if all they care about is the nourishment of the body! Look to your mind, Thorin Oakenshield, and look to your heart! There is great treasure to be found in Imladris, though I daresay it is not the sort of treasure you Dwarves seek: here is a hoard of lore and wisdom - and good counsel too, if you were not too proud and stubborn to ask for it.”

Thorin glared at him. “You know me ill, Gandalf, if you think I want anything the Elves have to offer. Or else you are pleased to mock me.”

“You like that elvish sword well enough,” muttered Gandalf under his hat.

“Hrm”. The sword from the troll-hoard was a handsome piece of steel, and cunningly forged, though Thorin was damned if he was going to admit that.

“I should at least show Elrond that map of yours, if I were you,” said Gandalf.

“Well, you are not, Mahal be thanked. And the rain shall weather the mountains to the bedrock before I let that so-called lore-master get his greedy hands on Thror’s map.”

“Elrond is much learned, even in the lore of your people. If you would only…”

“Enough!” snapped Thorin. “Would you tell me that an Elf understands better than I do a map that my own grandfather made?”

Gandalf bristled, but he knew that the map was a sore point for Thorin, and so he bit his tongue. “But this too travellers find in Elrond’s house,” he said, patiently: “healing of their hurts, and solace for their cares. That too is freely given, if one but asks.”

At that, Thorin stopped pacing, and faced the wizard. “And what sort of solace do you think an Elf can bring _me_?” he hissed. “What do the likes of him know of the trials of mortal folk? What do the likes of him care?”

But Gandalf had reached the end of his tether. His arms shot forward, and he grabbed Thorin by the lapels of his coat. “Now you listen to me, Master Dwarf, and you listen well!” he called, his formidable nose not an inch from Thorin’s. “You speak ill of what is wise and good, and only your ignorance can excuse you!” Thorin had stiffened, wondering whether it would be wise to lash out, for he did fear the wizard’s power; but Gandalf released him soon enough, and sat back huffily in his chair again. “Perhaps if you had spent less time reading account-books and more time reading histories, you might know that lord Elrond is called the Half-Elven,” Gandalf went on irritably.

Thorin had not expected that. “One of his parents was of mortal race?” he asked, brushing himself down. He had been about to shout at Gandalf that their association was well and truly over, but the wizard’s words had made him curious.

Gandalf shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, hrm, not exactly, it is a little more complicated than that,” muttered Gandalf, glossing over Elrond’s rather convoluted ancestry. “But _the point is_ , he knows all about loss. You see, it was granted to the half-elven to choose their fate. Elrond chose the life of the Eldar. But his brother chose the fate of mortals; and though he was blessed with long life, many times the span of Men, in the end he too died, and passed beyond the confines of this world.”

Thorin shuddered, and was silent for a moment. “This is monstrous,” he said at last. “To be asked to choose one half of one’s kin over the other half! What sort of gods would force one to make such a choice?”

Gandalf blinked. He had been about to say that this choice had been granted by the Valar as an especial grace; but he said nothing, guessing that Thorin would fail to see it that way. Instead he went on: “Perhaps I should tell you what befell Elrond’s wife. She was captured by Orcs, and tormented; and though they found her, and healed her body, yet her spirit had taken a hurt too grievous, and she left Middle-Earth and passed over the Sea. Now stick that in your pipe and smoke it! And I shall not dwell on the horrors Elrond saw when he fought against the forces of Mordor – yes, Mordor, Thorin, if the name means anything to you! So do not say to me that our host knows nothing of pain and loss. Don’t you dare!”

Thorin was chastened. He thought on the words of the wizard, who sat there glowering at him.

“But he will see her again,” Thorin mumbled.

“What was that?”

“His wife. He may have to wait for a thousand years, but he will see her again, across the Sea, where there is no death and no decay. Is that not so?”

“Hrm, well, yes,” Gandalf admitted. “Eventually.”

“So why has he not gone with her? Why does he remain in Middle-Earth?” Thorin asked. “Why do any of them remain?” he added, under his breath.

Gandalf ignored that last comment. “Because, Master Dwarf, the lord Elrond has a duty to fulfil. This place isn’t all about playing the harp and singing songs by the fireside, believe it or not.”

“Then what does he do that is so important?” asked Thorin sceptically.

“Well…now…how shall I put it,” Gandalf dithered, not wanting to say too much. “Let us say…he is a steward of sorts. Yes, that’s it. He guards and preserves these lands. And the lore. Lots of it. Very important. And let us not forget all the healing he does. Hrm.”

Thorin studied Gandalf suspiciously. The wizard contrived to look innocent. Thorin knew he would get no more out of him. Not that it mattered. “Very well,” he growled. “I will consider showing your precious lore-master the map. In any case, I need not fear that he will steal the map’s secret – after all, no Elf would dare go anywhere near the Mountain as long as there is a chance old Smaug still lives.”

Gandalf smiled, and nodded amiably, and watched Thorin stomp away through the gardens; though in truth he would have liked nothing better than to throttle the insufferable Dwarf.

***

A clear summer evening was falling over the hidden valley of Rivendell, and in the Last Homely House lanterns were being lit, twinkling silver and gold like the stars that flowered above. Harps were tuned, and elven voices were raised in song, in honour of Elbereth, the star-queen.

Another wretched midsummer festival, thought Thorin darkly, tying to shake off the memory of another such evening in the Grey Havens, long ago.

The memory put him ill at ease, all the more so since he was bracing himself for a similar sort of conversation to the one he had had with Círdan. Thorin did not trust this Elf – half-Elf, he reminded himself – but he would have to chance it. He was unsure how he would broach the subject; but in the end he plucked up his courage, and stepped out of the shadows where he had been hovering, and walked up to Elrond, who stood on a balcony, watching the celebrants with their lanterns filing out into the gardens below.

“Thorin, son of Thráin,” said Elrond pleasantly enough. “You are not taking part in the festivities?”

“Neither are you,” rumbled Thorin diffidently; and Elrond raised an eyebrow. Oh dear, thought Thorin. This was not going well. “Lord Elrond,” Thorin tried again, “I am glad that I find you alone, for I would speak to you in confidence, if I may.”

Elrond was rather amused by the Dwarf’s sudden and clumsy attempt at good manners. “And what is it you would talk about, Thorin, son of Thráin?”

“Death.”

“Ah. I see.” Elrond glanced down at the Dwarf. The look in his eyes was half-defiant and half-pleading; and indeed Thorin was thinking: _If you tell me death is Eru’s gift to our races, I will give you a bloody nose, Half-Elven or no_.

“What is it you would know?” Elrond asked.

Thorin shuffled his feet. “I heard that there had been…love-matches between different races; and I was wondering…what became of them. Eventually.”

Elrond sighed. “I do not claim to know much about this,” he answered, “though, as you may have heard, it concerns me closely; for on the subject our lore says but very little, and most of what we know is mere conjecture.” He glanced up at the heavens, and briefly wondered whether to mention his parents; but he decided against it, as their circumstances had been rather… exceptional, yes. Instead, he told the Dwarf: “It is said that of all mortals, Túor alone was granted the life of the Eldar for the sake of his spouse. And you may know the tale of Beren and Lúthien – to cut a long story short, she was granted a mortal life; and together they died indeed, and left the world. There are stories of other such matches, but it is not known what became of them. It is assumed that they were parted.”

“And what of…Dwarves and humans?”

“That I cannot tell you, for never before, to anyone’s knowledge, has there been a match such as yours.” Thorin did not ask how Elrond knew; and Elrond did not say that an elvish version of the _Iron and stone_ ballad was often sung in the Hall of Fire, and was the cause for much merriment. “But this I will say,” Elrond went on: though Aulë welcomes his children in his halls, I do not think that he has the authority to decide this matter. Perhaps Mandos does; but I believe that this falls to a higher power altogether.”

“The gods do not listen to us mere mortals; they only listen to the Elves,” said Thorin, unknowingly echoing something Helmwyn had said long ago. So Mahal could not help. In any case, Thorin had given up praying many years ago. And as for his lady, she may have been stubborn and steadfast, and possessed a fine voice; but she was no Lúthien who could sway Mandos with her song. Nay; if Thorin ever prayed again, it would be to rail against the cruel gods whose immovable decrees kept the kindreds apart in death.

Thorin hung his head; and Elrond pitied him. “I do not suppose,” Elrond said, “that you will find it very comforting if I tell you that her memory shall at least remain ever bright and unstained in your heart?”

Memory. That was all she was now; a distant, golden memory from the summer of his youth. That was all he had to warm the gaping void in his heart; and it was not enough. He wanted to see her again; and he could not accept that he never would. “Memory is not what the heart desires,” rumbled Thorin; “or so says the heart of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Elrond said nothing for a little while; but then he spoke: “There are some wounds that can never truly be healed;” and Thorin was grateful to the Elf – half-Elf – for this at least, that he did not try to offer him glib phrases of consolation. They remained in silence for some minutes, Thorin leaning heavily on the balcony, while Elrond’s gaze wistfully followed the path of Ëarendil’s star; when suddenly a jovial voice boomed behind them: “Aah, there you are! I have been looking for you, lord Elrond. Closeted with Thorin Oakenshield, I see? Well, well. And what were you two conspiring about?”

“Not that it is any business of yours,” growled Thorin, pulling himself together quickly, “but I came to ask the lord Elrond’s opinion on my grandfather’s map.”

“Indeed, you have,” Elrond concurred, his face quite impassive; “come, will you not show it to me? I am sure Gandalf would be eager to have a look at it, too.”

Thorin shot the wizard a dark glance, then produced Thrór’s map from his pocket, and handed it to Elrond. He reflected that he had just poured his soul out to that Elf – half-Elf – so he might as well show him the second best-kept secret of his line. Elrond carefully unfolded the parchment and examined it by the light of the crescent moon, which was more than enough for his elven eyes to see by.

It was a fairly crude map of the Lonely Mountain and its surroundings; and a D rune marked the approximate location of a door on the Mountain’s western flank. So this was what they purposed. Of course, Elrond had guessed that these Dwarves would make some foolish attempt to return to Erebor; but now it seemed they had found a way in.

He glanced at Thorin, standing sombre and squat between Gandalf and himself. Elrond was saddened by the Dwarves’ irrepressible appetite for riches; but he also recalled how prosperous the fair city of Dale had been, when wealth had flowed along trade routes far to the East and South, and the Mountain had been at the centre of it all, like a great, beating heart.

“I have seen Erebor in the days of its glory,” said Elrond thoughtfully; “and I have also seen the barren land that the beast left in its wake.” He hesitated. “I would see the days of peace and plenty restored; and I would see the three kindreds, Elves, Dwarves, and Men, live and trade together again. But I must warn you: your quest may succeed, or it may fail; but if it fails, then you shall bring ruin upon ruin to your home, and beyond.”

The Dwarf muttered something about duty and destiny and there being no choice for him. Elrond raised his eyebrows at Gandalf. “You support this undertaking?”

“Well, you know how it is. Sometimes things simply need… helping along a little,” said Gandalf with a winning smile.

Elrond gave Gandalf a long look; but he was used to the wizard’s… initiatives by now. “Very well. You will do as you must. But as for this map,” he said, lifting the parchment, “I doubt whether there is much more I can tell- wait. What is this?” The moonlight shone through the parchment, and they saw that pale markings were revealed where none had been before.

Elrond gave a wry smile. “Well, my friends, it would appear that luck is on your side! Perhaps it is a glad omen, and bodes well for your quest after all!”

***

Thorin listened in mild bewilderment to Elrond’s explanations about moon phases and silver pens and ancient dwarven magic; and he hurried along after Elrond and Gandalf as they strode excitedly to the library, and began pulling moon-charts from the shelves, and tried to calculate on what date Durin’s Day would fall that year.

Thorin perched on a chair that was too high for him, and brooded about the moon-runes, his legs dangling.

He was immensely proud that his people had mastered the magical art of making such things – and grieved that such knowledge had been lost, perhaps for good, when Erebor fell. He wondered how and when Thrór or Thráin could have made such a map, for it could not have been easy to come by silver pens in their exile. He marvelled that they should have possessed such skill - to say nothing of the art of making an invisible door and laying a charm upon it (1). And he wondered once more what else his father had not told him about.

But as he watched the half-Elf and the wizard poring over celestial almanacs, he reflected on the tenuous chances that had ruled his quest so far; and he asked himself whether there was not indeed something like fate pushing him along. Thorin did not know whether he truly believed in destiny; he did not know whether he believed in anything at all anymore. But evidently Elrond did; and Gandalf even believed that destiny could be tweaked. And so, though he felt morose and dispirited, Thorin decided at least to put on a show of grim determination, for the sake of his companions, and of his people.

“Well, you were eager to depart, Master Dwarf,” called Gandalf to him; “you shall have your wish! It is a long way yet to the Mountain, and we cannot delay if we wish to reach it in time for Durin’s Day!”

“I shall tell my companions to be ready to depart. They will be thrilled,” rumbled Thorin; and with a bow, he stalked pensively out of the library.

***

Elrond waited until he was well out of earshot, and gave Gandalf a pointed look. “I do not know what scheme you are hatching, Mithrandir; but _Dwarves_? That is unusual, even for you.”

“I do not associate with them gladly, Master Elrond – and believe me, the journey has been a trying one! But – well – _someone_ has to do something about that dragon, and the Dwarves are only too willing to try! Why not make use of them?”

“My heart is troubled,” said Elrond. “Have you thought of the consequences of this, if the dragon is unleashed?”

“I know,” whispered Gandalf urgently. “But think how much worse it would be if _others_ were to unleash the dragon! You know of whom I speak. If what I fear is true, we may be running out of time.”

Elrond considered this. “Still. Even if you are right, the plan seems… optimistic at best. But then, you always were quite the optimist, were you not?”

Gandalf twinkled. “As you said, Master Elrond. I rather think that luck is on our side – if we but know how to seize it.”

Had anyone else spoken thus, Elrond would have dismissed them as a rash fool. But the grey wizard was no fool, and Elrond knew that well enough. As for the rashness… well. Not for naught did Mithrandir bear the Ring of Fire.

Elrond smiled that wry smile of his. “Well, my friend. If this is indeed your last night in Imladris, we must have some wine together. Come.” And he led Gandalf out of the library. But then, as an afterthought, he added: “And for pity’s sake, try and prevent those Dwarves of yours from being overly boisterous and breaking more of my furniture, would you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) If indeed they had made the door. Either that, or they had resorted to the tried and tested method used by megalomaniacal rulers everywhere: get the most cunning engineer to design and build intricate secret passages for them, then have the man executed.


	69. Chapter 68

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 68**

 

_Thorin was walking through a cornfield. It seemed a little strange to him; but his lady seemed to know where she was going. She held his hand, and led him through the tall wheat; and, seeing that he still hesitated, she turned towards him, took both his hands in hers, and, laughing brightly, she walked backwards, tugging him onward. Thorin laughed too, and followed her, though it seemed to him that this field went on forever, that it covered the whole plain, as far as the eye could see. Ought there not to have been green grass?_

_A golden haze hung over the land, and swallows wheeled overhead; and the wheat rippled in the summer breeze, and her hair rippled over her shoulders, and the sun lit it with gold. She stopped, and drew him close, and gently framed his face in her hands, and kissed him; and Thorin clasped her to his heart. And it seemed to him that the sun had stopped in her path, that time was no more, that the world would remain suspended in endless summer as long as the kiss lasted. Thorin closed his eyes, and marvelled at how vivid it all felt, the scent of sun-ripened wheat, the boiled leather of her cuirass, her hair, warm from the sun, and her sweet lips against his._

_She wrapped her arms protectively about his head; and Thorin felt a deep, aching yearning, and blissful peace, all at once. Love and warmth and golden light enveloped him, cradled him; and Thorin realised that he had not felt so loved since he had been an infant at his mother’s breast. His heart sang, and tears choked him, and –_

Thorin woke with a start. He did not know where he was at first; but his heart was beating hot and hard against his hauberk. He peered into the dark, perceived the snoring of his companions, gathered that he was indoors; and then it came back to him. He lay back on his bed of straw, sighed deeply, and waited for his hammering heart to calm down.

He still dreamed of her sometimes, though seldom so vividly. It must be the bed of straw, he decided. It must be this place. The smell of livestock and hay, the snorting of horses. It must have been the mead.

He wanted to go outside, out of the warm fug of this barn, to breathe the cool night air, waiting for the dream to wear off. But Thorin remembered that the door was bolted and barred; and there was a shuffling and a snuffling outside, as though some great beast were prowling about the house. He thought better of it.

And so Thorin rolled over, shifting until he had found a comfortable position in the straw, and clutched the elven sword to him. It was a comforting thing to hold, though he would never have admitted it. It nestled well in his arms, perhaps on account of its curves. But then it occurred to Thorin that all he had to hold these days was a cold piece of elvish steel, however curvaceous; and he felt this to be a rather depressing state of affairs.

Thorin’s heartbeat eventually slowed, and the vivid impression of the dream faded, though he tried to hold on to it; but he lay awake in the dark for a long time, while around him all the others slept.

***

That day the Company remained in Beorn’s house, though in truth they found the big man with his big axe and his gruff manner rather intimidating. But he had fed them well enough, and all in all they were not displeased to be able to rest, and to tend the scratches and bruises they had sustained in their brush with the Wargs – none more so than Thorin. Óin had insisted that he smear honey on his wounds; and since their host had plentiful supplies of the stuff, there had been little sense in arguing.

Thorin now lay in the grass with honey on his nose, basking in the sun, letting it warm his aching limbs. He could hear the mighty axe-blows of the woodsman, who was chopping firewood, and the hushed voices of the others, who sat beneath the porch, playing games, talking quietly, carving little figures out of wood; but they kept a low profile, not wanting to risk irritating their host.

Beorn’s domain felt strangely familiar to Thorin – the long wooden hall and its outbuildings, the green, and the thorny fence, sheltered in a copse of oak and elm, with rolling grasslands beyond and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Thorin was unsure whether he found this disturbing or comforting; but he could almost fancy he was back in another summer, many years ago. He felt drowsy, after his agitated night, and thought how pleasant it would be to doze off, and perhaps dream another dream like the one he had had. He sighed a deep sigh, and let himself be lulled by the humming of the bees.

Beorn stalked back to the house, his great axe on his shoulder, and chanced across the Dwarf reclining in the grass, playing with a little nugget of gold, with a contented smile on his lips. The big man’s shadow fell across Thorin’s face. “Dreaming of treasure, Dwarf?” Beorn growled; and it was not meant in a friendly way. But Thorin opened his eyes, and sat up, as a courtesy to his host. “Aye, I suppose I am,” he replied thoughtfully. Beorn noted with some distaste that the Dwarf closed the little golden nugget in his fist. _Greedy Dwarves_ , he thought.

“Did you build all this yourself?” Thorin asked, indicating the hall and palisade. Beorn growled, which Thorin took to mean _yes_. “And the carvings?” Another growl. “They are remarkable,” said Thorin courteously; and indeed they were. They also seemed very familiar. He tried to remember what Helmwyn had said about her people having come down from the north long ago. “Were there not horse-people who used to dwell between the River and the Mountains?”

“Why do you ask?” rumbled Beorn.

“Your carvings,” Thorin explained. “Your house.”

Beorn rumbled again, in what might have been assent. “Kin. Long ago.”

“You were not friendly?” asked Thorin cautiously. He doubted whether Beorn had ever been friendly with anyone.

“They were many,” the big man said. “Always needed more land. My people kept to themselves. Then horse-people left. Went away south.”

Thorin nodded, and gazed at the grasslands beyond the fence. There was a lull. “I like this place,” he said at last.

“Why?” demanded Beorn. “You covet it for yourself? There is no gold here, Dwarf!”

Thorin blinked, a little surprised at the woodman’s accusation; but he shook his head wistfully. “It reminds me of another place, and another time. And of someone who was dear to me – someone who _is_ dear to me, but who is no more. She would have liked it here.” Beorn said nothing to that. Perhaps it had made an impression on him; or perhaps not. “There is only one thing missing,” Thorin mused.

Beorn gave Thorin a suspicious look. “What? A treasure-chamber?”

Thorin laughed. “Nay. A linden-tree.” Beorn stared at him. “Right here, in the middle of the green.”

“A Dwarf who likes trees,” rumbled Beorn, then made a noise which could well have been a great roaring laugh. It was not altogether reassuring. “And what do you want with trees?”

“It is a fine thing to sit under a linden tree, on summer days such as this, to sit in the fragrant shade, and smoke, and think.”

“You sit and think of gold and trees, Dwarf. I go milk my goats.” Beorn stalked off towards the house; and Thorin wondered if that was not a smile he had seen on the woodsman’s great scarred face. It was hard to tell. He had shown his teeth, at any rate.

***

Beorn went back inside, put down his great axe, and fetched bucket and milking stool. His goats greeted him cheerfully, and formed an orderly queue; and Beorn gave them all a friendly pat. It was some time before he realised that there was someone else in the house, besides the animals. That little squirrelly fellow the Dwarves had brought was there, too, curled unobtrusively in a corner, so quiet that Beorn had quite failed to notice him at first.

He appeared lost in thought; and it seemed to Beorn that he too was twiddling something golden between his fingers, though he caught only a flash of it. Beorn shook his head, and turned back to his milking.

***

Thorin sat, hugging his knees, and watched little shreds of cloud drifting over the mountains, in the otherwise clear summer sky. The sun had warmed the honey, which had begun to run down his nose; and Thorin wiped a drop off with his fingertip, and tasted it. It was good honey, he thought, dark, fragrant and strong. In his other hand he held the little golden thing, rolling it between his fingers, as was his habit.

He decided that, on balance, he was more gladdened than he was saddened to be here; after all, the place brought back some fond memories. Thorin grinned to himself. He recalled one occasion in particular, when she had taken his hand and led him discreetly to the stables, and together they had snuck up into the hayloft; and there amid the fragrant hay she had taught him the gestures of love. This had been in the very earliest days; how young he had been then, and how inexperienced…

He vividly remembered the thin shafts of sunlight slanting through the gaps between the barn’s wooden boards, and her small round breasts like shields with pink bosses, and the stamping and the snorting of the horses beneath. He remembered how he had trembled with desire and excitement and the fear of discovery; but she had guided his clumsy, shaking hands, and soothed him, and taught him patience. And he remembered how they had tried hard to stifle their gasps and moans, and their laughter afterwards, when they had spent a long while picking strands of hay out of each other’s hair –

“Uncle!”

Thorin’s daydream was abruptly cut short when something barrelled into him, knocking the breath from his body and the little golden thing from his hand.

“Ha! Caught off guard!” crowed Kíli, enormously proud at having pounced on his uncle. Fíli stood nearby grinning; though his grin faded when he saw the look of wrath on Thorin’s face.

“Durin’s beard!” he roared, pushing Kíli off him, barely able to stop himself from strangling the lad. “What have I done to be cursed with such a pair of numbskulls for nephews?”

Kíli looked sheepish. “We meant no harm, uncle,” mumbled Fíli.

“You though this was clever?” Thorin went on. “You thought this was funny? How old are you? It stopped being funny when you were thirty-five! What if I had been armed? I might have run you through!”

The two young Dwarves stared at their boots. How old _were_ they?, Thorin asked himself. Around eighty, as he recalled. Sweet Mahal. Had he ever been such an idiot when he was their age? Ha. To think what he had already been through at that age. He had fought in the mountains when he wasn’t yet fifty; he had been married, and widowed by the time he was eighty-three –

“Where is it?” he growled all of a sudden, realising that the little golden thing had flown from his hand.

“Where is what?” asked Fíli.

“What are you waiting for?” Thorin shouted, on all fours in the grass. “Help me find it!”

His nephews looked at each other, then dutifully joined their uncle on the lawn, turning over blades of grass, until at last Kíli spotted a glint of gold amid the green. He picked the thing up and stared at it. “It’s that thing you’re always playing with, isn’t it?” Fíli remarked.

“Give it here!” growled Thorin.

“What is it?” asked Kíli.

“Mind your own damned business,” Thorin snapped, promptly snatching the thing from his nephew’s paws, and pocketing it again.

There was an awkward silence. Fíli looked chastened, and Kíli looked hard done by; and Thorin tried to simmer down, and realised that maybe he had been a little harsh on his nephews. “Look, boys, I’m sorry if I shouted at you,” he said eventually. “But you really ought to know better than to pounce on me like that. This is a serious quest, not a walking-holiday! It’s about time you two started behaving like princes of the House of Durin!”

“Yes, Uncle,” the lads mumbled. “Sorry, Uncle.”

“Consider yourselves lucky that you didn’t have to go to war at the age of fifty, like I did!”

“Yes, Uncle. Sorry, Uncle.”

“I’m especially disappointed in you, Fíli,” Thorin went on. “You are my heir, and you know the duties and the responsibilities that this entails. You ought to be an example to your brother, and not encourage him to this sort of childish prank.”

“Yes, Uncle. Sorry, Uncle.”

Thorin saw how put out his nephews looked; and he went to them, and knocked their heads together affectionately, and gave them an avuncular smile. “I am stern with you because I care about you. You know this, don’t you? Well now.” And with that he stomped off towards the house.

He was fond of his nephews, he really was; but he found their carefree manner trying. He hoped they would grow up soon, for their own sake. But for now, they had quite succeeded in ruining his mood, Thorin thought, and closed his hand around the small golden figure in his pocket.

***

“Did you see what it was?” Fíli asked his brother.

Kíli had only caught a brief glimpse of the little golden thing. The graven lines of the face and hair were much worn, where Thorin’s thumbs had almost rubbed them smooth over the years; but the overall shape of the little figure was still plain to see.

“It was a little figure of a woman – with a sword and shield,” he said. “At least… I think it was a woman. She had no beard.”

The lads exchanged a look, then stared curiously after their uncle as he walked away.

***

“Balin?”

The old Dwarf, who had been trying to have a nap in shade of the porch, in Beorn’s enormous rocking chair, opened one eye, then two, when he saw the lads’ expressions.

“Yes, my boys,” he said, resigned; “what is it?”

“It’s about Uncle,” said Kíli. “He was playing with that little golden figure again, and I… Why won’t he ever talk about his wife?” the lad blurted out. “He _was_ married, wasn’t he? I mean, I’ve heard rumours, but nobody ever tells us anything. Is that figure supposed to be her?”

“Best not mention her, lad, it’ll only upset your uncle.”

“I think we’ve already managed to upset him,” said Fíli darkly.

“Your uncle is very guarded, and no wonder! The subject pains him, so it’s only natural that he doesn’t want to talk about it.” Balin patted Kíli on the shoulder. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Look,” said Kíli, “I know she died – actually, that’s all I know - but then, so did Father, and Mother tells us about _him_.”

“And cries every time she does,” supplied Fíli.

“Exactly. My point is, she talks about Father, even if it saddens her. But even she won’t tell us anything about Thorin’s wife. _She’s dead, that’s all you need to know_ – that’s all I ever get from her when I raise the subject. And when I ask you, it’s always _Best not mention her, lad, it’ll only upset your uncle_! You’d think there’s some sort of unspeakable scandal. I’m just so sick and tired of the secret-mongering in this family!”

Balin gave the young Dwarf a long look. “And why are you so keen on knowing, lad? Believe me: sometimes it’s best to let the past remain in the past.” 

Kíli looked like he was about to sulk. “I just want to know,” he mumbled.

Fíli cleared his throat. “Balin, I think that what Kíli is trying to say is… You see, the reason he’s curious…” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Basically, I think it’s time somebody had ‘that talk’ with my little brother.” Kíli kicked him in the shin.

Balin blinked, then flushed crimson to his ears. “That’s not for me to do. I’m hardly an expert. That falls to your mother. Or to your uncle.”

“Yes,” said Fíli, “but they’re avoiding it, aren’t they! That’s my point.”

Kíli’s brow furrowed. “Wait a minute. Have they had ‘that talk’ with you?” he asked his brother.

“No. But I think you have more urgent need of it, little brother.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that _I_ don’t need help telling male and female Elves apart.”

“Now, wait!” Kíli protested. “Anyone could have made that mistake!”

Balin remembered that embarrassing episode in Rivendell, while the brothers scuffled. He reflected that, indeed, Kíli had reached that age where a lad begins to show an interest in the lasses (or presumed lasses), regardless of species. “Perhaps you should ask your uncle after all,” suggested Balin. Perhaps Thorin would be able to impress on the lad that it was better to stay away from women of other races. That sort of thing only led to problems. He knew that all too well. There were some situations that he would rather not see repeated.

“All right,” said Fíli, “we’ll ask him – but not today. Let’s wait till he’s in better mood. Right, Kíli?”

“Right, Fíli.” The lad shuffled his feet. “Balin…I don’t suppose you could answer us just a few questions? You know. Background, like.”

Balin sighed. “What is it you want to know, lad?”

“Was she a fighter?” Kíli asked eagerly, recalling the little golden figure with sword and shield.

“Aye, laddie. She was a fighter,” said Balin patiently.

“Really?” said Fíli, his interest piqued. “So she died in battle?”

“No. She did not.”

“Oh? Not even at Azanulbizar?”

“No.”

Kíli was still puzzled by the little figure’s lack of beard. “Wait. Was she an Elf?”

“No!” Balin exclaimed.

“Is that why everybody’s so embarrassed when I bring it up?”

“No!” Balin hid his face in his hands. “Look, lads,” he said. “Forget what I said. Perhaps it’s best you _don’t_ ask your uncle. Not if you’re going to ask _that_ kind of question.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go ask Glóin! He’s the one you want to talk to about lasses.”

“Is that right?” asked Kíli.

“Oh yes. Quite the ladies’ man in his day. He knows all there is to know on the subject.”

“Even elven lasses?” asked Fíli with a mischievous grin.

“Eh – no. But never you mind about elven lasses. Off you go. Run along now.” Balin shooed the boys away, and shook his head as they scampered off in search of Glóin. It occurred to him that, had he had ‘that talk’ with Thorin, back in the day, perhaps the whole mess could have been avoided. He still felt responsible for that, for not saying anything to warn the lad until it was already too late. The truth of the matter was that Balin was simply not very comfortable discussing these things - as he had told the boys: he was hardly an expert.

But had Balin stepped in in time, Thorin might not have got… involved with the lady of the Mark. He might have forgotten about her, and found himself a nice dwarven girl to marry instead, had a couple of children of his own - and his relationship with his sister and his father would have been considerably less fraught. The lad wouldn’t have been so consumed with bitterness. Mahal knew he would have had enough on his plate already as it was.

But then again –

Balin looked out on the green, and its wooded enclosure, and the grasslands and mountains beyond. Yes, the place did feel familiar. Carved wood, mead and ponies – no wonder Thorin had been mooning about all morning, just as he had back then, in the Mark. He could still see the lad, sitting hand in hand under the old linden tree with that little shieldmaiden of his. Cloyingly in love, they had been; and so very young. But perhaps war had a way of stoking the hearts of young people.

But it had been a good match - surprisingly. While it lasted. And though there had been no child (but perhaps that had been for the best), they had shared loyalty and affection and understanding and support, if only for a few years – which was more than what many folk had. Many Dwarves, certainly. Perhaps it was more than what Thorin might otherwise have had.

Who was to say? Perhaps it had been worth it.


	70. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hullo, boys and girls. So, I’ve seen BotFA, and been pretty rattled; and this is my way of dealing with it. I don’t know if this counts as spoilery, inasmuch as it is a (largely) canon-compliant ending. So, you know. I’ll just leave this here. Don’t read until you’ve seen the film, or read if you’ve seen the film and wish it had gone differently.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 69**

 

Thorin had lingered on for hours.

He was brought to a tent in Dale after Beorn had borne him form the field; and there, amid the chaos, he was given such care as could be contrived in that ruined city. Elves from Thranduil’s retinue attended him; but Thorin’s hurts were so grievous that even their powers of healing could not avail him.

His golden armour had been pierced in several places; but he had taken one spear-wound to the belly that was beyond cure. His blood was corrupted, and it would kill him – later rather than sooner, for Dwarves were hardy folk, and strong to endure. It would be a long agony, and some might have wished for the mercy of a quicker, cleaner death; but Thorin bore the pain with stony-faced fortitude. At least his injuries left him a little time to put his affairs in order.

***

He made his peace with those who remained. It did not cost him much, for he had avenged his honour and turned the tide of the battle, and he could afford a few magnanimous words to his former foes; for he also thought of the Kingdom under the Mountain, and he sought to secure the goodwill of its neighbours while he could. As for his enemies, they spoke fair, and praised his valour, and repented their proud words at the Gate, for that did not cost them much either, knowing he would soon be dead. And so all were reconciled.

The Hobbit came snivelling to his bedside, heavy with remorse and eager for forgiveness; and to him too Thorin spoke a few words of reconciliation, in what he hoped was a sufficiently Hobbit-like vein. His words seemed to hit the mark, and the little fellow left the tent blubbing as though Thorin were already dead.

Thorin rolled his eyes. “And now, Gandalf,” he said, and grimaced as a spasm of pain lanced through his insides, “if you are quite done bringing parasites and hypocrites to my deathbed for me to bless, I should like to deal with _important_ matters before my time is up.”

Gandalf looked down at him. The wizard was ashen-faced, and his arm was in a sling; and Thorin thought how rattled he looked, how frail, and old. “Aye,” the old man said wearily. “You have done handsomely, Thorin Oakenshield; and for that you have my thanks. I… hrm,” he broke off; and Thorin vaguely wondered if, given that he was dying, he might not for once receive an apology form Gandalf the Grey. “I’ll send Balin in,” the wizard muttered, and slunk out.

Balin stepped into the tent, still wearing his mail; and Thorin was relieved to see that, though he was weary and battle-stained, the old warrior was hale and unharmed. Thorin smiled, and beckoned his friend to his bedside. Balin came and clasped his hand, and returned the smile as best he could; but his heart was breaking, and he could find no words for the grief this day had brought.

“I gather we won,” said Thorin after a while.

“Well, the Orcs lost, certainly,” Balin answered; “though it remains to be seen how everyone will come out of this. Time will tell who really won the day.”

“Dáin will be king, of course,” said Thorin.

“Of course,” Balin concurred. “Things should go quite smoothly. I mean, the line of succession is clear, now that…” He broke off. “But it’s not right, all the same. It should have been you!”

“Dáin came when we called. We owe him much.”

“Aye, that we do,” muttered Balin, though he thought Dáin a brash little upstart. “But he’s not half the king you are - the king you would have been -” Balin stammered, and broke down. “Oh, laddie…” he sobbed.

“Come, my friend,” said Thorin soothingly. “Do not weep! This is as good an end as any other – better than most, for that matter; better than many others that might have befallen us. But look at what we have achieved! The worm is dead, the Orcs are destroyed, and the Mountain is ours once more! Our people shall come home at long last! Who’d have thought it?” Thorin squeezed Balin’s hand, and the old Dwarf smiled through his tears. “We set out with little hope, on an impossible quest, and we have fulfilled it! What pity is it that I should die, when we have gained such a victory?

“I do not have many regrets, Balin,” Thorin went on. “I only wish…I only wish the boys had lived,” he said, and wept. He had thought that no harm would befall them as long as they stayed close to him. How wrong he had been! They had fallen defending him, his dear, stupid boys; and he blamed himself bitterly for not having been kinder to them. But then, he reflected, he would see them soon, and make amends. “If you can get word to my sister, tell her… tell her that they died with honour, and that they made their fathers proud.”

“I will tell her that, laddie.” Balin was thankful for one small mercy at least: Thorin had been carried off the field, and had not seen how horribly mutilated his nephews’ bodies had been when they had found them. But he did not need to know, and neither did their mother. “Songs,” said Balin. “We’ll have songs ready for when she arrives. And tapestries, if there is time; and there will be statues eventually. I promise. They will not be forgotten.”

“Good,” said Thorin. “And of Thráin, too.” Balin nodded. “And Frerin. And -” Thorin gritted his teeth against a surge of pain.

Balin looked around for the healers. “I’ll have them fetch you something to ease the pain -”

“Nay,” Thorin panted, “leave it – I would have my wits about me!”

Balin held Thorin’s hand, and smoothed his damp hair from his brow, and waited for the pain to pass; and in his mind he thought _and we’ll make you the greatest, proudest statues of all, laddie_. But he could not say it, and choked back his sobs.

When the pain had abated a little, Thorin spoke: “My friend! I have one last request to make of you.” And he pulled Balin close, and spoke into his ear at some length. “Promise me,” he said at last.

Balin thought on Thorin’s words, and nodded. “It shall be done.”

“Promise me!” said Thorin urgently.

“I promise.”

Thorin seemed relieved, and gratefully sank back onto the pillows that propped up his wounded body. He saw that Dwalin was there, and smiled at his old comrade-in-arms. “My friend,” he said, “I am glad that you should be with me in my final hour!”

Dwalin tried to smile; but he was heartbroken that Thorin’s voice should sound so hoarse and weak. He placed the haft of his axe in Thorin’s hand, though the blade was notched; for it would not have been seemly for a warrior such as he to appear before his fathers unarmed. But in his other hand Thorin clutched the locket that he wore about his neck. It had become somewhat battered and waterlogged during the quest, but he had it still.

“Do you think it is all true, Dwalin?” Thorin asked. “Do you think they are all waiting on the other side?”

“’Course they are,” answered Dwalin; “and they will welcome you in triumph!”

But Thorin saw that Dwalin wept. “Brother” he called him, and beckoned to him; and Dwalin leaned over, and laid his brow against the brow of his king and friend, the one he had followed unquestioningly all his life.

And Balin stood by Thorin’s bed, and thought what a waste this was, what a terrible waste; that he would lose one whom he loved as a son, and that the Mountain and all the treasure within were a poor prize for the loss of such a one. But Thorin had fought for duty, and for honour, and for pride - his own, and his house’s, and his people’s; and Balin told himself that perhaps Thorin was right. Perhaps it was better that he should die thus, his destiny fulfilled and his glory undimmed, rather than fading into bitterness and oblivion in Ered Luin.

But the pain grew ever stronger, and Thorin clenched his jaw so that he would not cry out. He fought valiantly, and he fought long; but the pain exhausted him. Yet still he refused any potion that might relieve him – “Give it to such as may yet live,” he said; but he gratefully took a draught of mead.

Dwalin remained long by Thorin’s bedside, reminiscing, telling him tales of old fights, clasping his hands through the spasms of pain; and he went on talking even when Thorin became too weak to answer, and could do no more than smile. And if the axe should slip from his grasp, Dwalin would gently close his hand around it once more.

Long it could not be before Thorin was taken with a violent fever; and as the night grew old, Thorin wandered in fever-dreams, muttering to himself – though they could not make out what he said. He thrashed out against the pain, but in the end, his strength left him, and his skin was waxy pale against his dark hair; and his friends knew that henceforth he would wake no more. Balin sat across from his brother, and laid his hand on Thorin’s, and made sure that he still clasped the locket to his breast; but he could feel the great heart beating wildly, fighting, ever fighting, while Thorin’s eyes darted hither and thither behind half-closed lids, as though he were scanning the empty air, searching for something only he could see.

***

When the dawn came at last, the sons of Fundin sat with their head in their hands, and spoke not; and their tears were spent. In the final moments, Thorin’s breathing had been laboured, and shallow, and his heart had fluttered desperately; but at last the great heart had stopped, and Thorin had breathed his last breath like a great sigh of relief. But it seemed that his pale blue eyes were not unseeing, but rather that they looked upon something far away; and there was neither fear nor pain nor grief in them.

***

Thorin was laid to rest with such pomp and solemnity as could be arranged in the aftermath of war. The upper chambers had been all but smashed to rubble by the wrath of Smaug; but deep beneath the Mountain, no violence had raged where the old kings slept undisturbed in their house of stone. There they made a plain tomb for King Thorin II, and for the royal princes of the line of Durin. There would be monumental sculpture, later; but for now they would have a simple stone slab bearing their name.

Those among the survivors of Dáin’s depleted army who could stand filed gravely down the long stairways bearing lights. Thorin’s companions bore the biers aloft, and carried them down into the crypt. Thorin was attired in splendid vestments befitting a king; and his sister-sons too they had laid out in princely garments – though their cruel treatment at the hand of the Orcs could not be entirely disguised.

The Elvenking and the heir of Girion were admitted, that they might pay their respects – and especially that they might return what had been stolen, the Arkenstone of Thráin and the sword Orcrist. Presumably Gandalf had impressed upon them that such a gesture of goodwill would be… judicious at the present point (just as he had doubtless persuaded Dáin to be more open-handed than his late cousin; but then again, Dáin was canny, and had few qualms being free with treasure that was not his).

Nevertheless, both Thranduil and Bard were asked to leave before the ceremony proper began; and so was Gandalf. This was ostensibly because Khuzdul would be spoken, and it was not permitted for such as were not Dwarves to hear the words of that secret tongue; but in truth, they sensed no small amount of ill-will on the part of the Dwarves, even – especially – Thorin’s closest companions. The Hobbit was nowhere to be seen.

Once the intruders were gone, there was a deep, respectful hush; and Balin sounded a golden horn, and when the echoes had faded, he bade the Dwarves hearken, and began to recite the ancestry of the dead. He traced their descent all the way from Durin the Deathless; and though his eyes were bright with tears, his voice did not falter. And all showed much reverence to him, for he was among the eldest there, and he was known to be wise and subtle; and he too was of the house of Durin.

At last Balin told of the deeds of Thorin Oakenshield. His deeds were known to most, but Balin had witnessed them all, and he recalled for all present the mighty warrior his King had been, the tireless leader in exile, the father of his people – the bold darer who had reclaimed the Mountain against all odds. And the Dwarves shook their weapons, and beat their breastplates with their iron gauntlets, and the clash of metal echoed in the great cavern in one last, warlike salute.

Then Dáin stood forth; and in honour of the fallen, he took up golden shears, and cut off one of the tips of his forked red beard, as a token of mourning. He cast the tuft of hair onto a brazier, and knelt, and laid his brow against the foot of Thorin’s tomb; and after him followed Thorin’s companions, and all that wished to say farewell.

But as the mourners filed past the tombs, a deep sound was heard, so deep that at first, it was felt rather in the bones than in the ears. But the sound grew, and echoed about the great chamber: a bass note as deep and dark as the roots of the Mountain itself; and above this drone, a chant rose, slow and dirge-like at first, hieratic and grim as the pillars and arches of stone above them. But then the sound swelled, as tier upon tier of the Dwarves raised their voices in song; and the vault rang with the great lament, the call to Mahal, the threnody for the dead.

 _Maker, of stone thou hast made us  
_ _To the stone we shall return  
_ _To sleep in the mountain’s bosom  
_ _Until the world is renewed_

 _Thy child hath laid down his hammer  
_ _Thy child hath laid down his axe  
_ _Thy child hath laid down his harp  
_ _Thy child sleeps beneath the stone_

 _Welcome him now to thy halls  
_ _That he may sit beside his fathers  
_ _In honour shall he abide  
_ _Until the world is renewed_  

The torches of the mourners shone in the vast hall like gold and gems upon a cavern-roof; and the deep voices of the Dwarves rose and fell like the tides of the Sea.

 _Maker, of fire thou hast made us  
_ _Our fire shall not be quenched  
_ _Thy people shall return unto their halls  
_ _And their forges shall be re-lit_

_Thou hast given thy children strength  
_ _Thou hast given thy children skill  
_ _Thou hast given thy children the runes  
_ _Thou hast stayed the blows of thy hammer_

_Maker, of precious ores thou hast made us  
_ _Lead us to iron gold and mithril  
_ _Our halls shall be cleansed of our enemies  
_ _And our hands shall flow with gold_  

At last, the great architecture of song that had risen under the arches of the crypt came to an end, and folded upon itself, until there was just the drone, and that too stopped; but the echoes of the dwarven voices lingered in the vault for several long heartbeats, and faded into silence.

***

The heavy lids were heaved onto the tombs, and sealed; and the torchbearers filed out of the crypt in solemn procession, the only sound that of iron-capped boots on stone. But the remainder of Thorin’s company could not yet bring themselves to leave, and stood a long, silent while in the flickering light of the few torches that remained.

“What now?” young Óri eventually asked his doleful companions.

“Now we drink,” said Glóin.

All in all, it seemed the best thing they could do.


	71. Epilogue

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Epilogue**

 

The sounds of revelry filtered from one of the upper halls, where Dáin’s people had built a great fire. Enough war-boars and battle-goats had been killed that there was plenty to feast on; and Dáin felt like something of a conqueror.

In the guardroom, those few of Thorin’s companions who had not the heart for feasting stared into their cups; and for a long while, no one spoke. But the tale of Thorin’s youth had brought a wistful smile to their faces, and they refilled their glasses, and nodded, and drank.

“That was a good tale,” said Glóin. “I’d never heard very much about this, myself. My dad always spoke of it evasively, like it was some kind of embarrassment. Well, well. Fancy our Thorin being all besotted!” He gave a hearty chuckle. “Live and let live, is what I say.” He blinked. “Er. I mean… all the same, I wouldn’t want _my_ son running off with a human girl, obviously, but… I mean… ahem.”

Dwalin wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Takes you back, doesn’t it,” he rumbled.

“Aye,” said Balin, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “That it does.”

But Bilbo’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “So… are you saying that all this…” – Bilbo gestured vaguely – “…all this business with Thorin’s wife…are you saying that it somehow shaped him, and influenced the course of events?”

They all stared at the Hobbit. “No,” said Gandalf at last, in that way he had of making ‘no’ sound like a question. “I do not think that Thorin would have been much less bitter, or less driven, had none of this happened. It did not significantly alter the fate of his people; and I believe Thorin would have taken this course in the end, whatever may have been.”

Bilbo was feeling a little bothered and upset. He rather resented having been made to sit through this whole depressing story if there was not a neat moral to be gained from it in the end. “So why did you tell me all of this?” he burst out, and glared at Gandalf. In truth, Balin had done most of the telling; but Bilbo somehow felt that Gandalf had instigated the whole sorry business. In fact, Bilbo was beginning to feel that Gandalf had instigated just about everything.

Gandalf pondered that for a moment. “I do not rightly know,” he said. “It may comfort you, and all those who loved him, to know that in spite of his burden, Thorin Oakenshield was happy for a time - even though that time was short, and he bought it with much sorrow.” Gandalf puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Or, then again, it may not.”

***

Bilbo mulled on that on his journey home. He mulled over many things.

To tell the truth, he had a great deal of trouble imagining a happy young Thorin in love. It seemed like the unlikeliest thing. The Thorin he knew had been irascible, harsh, unyielding – not to mention extremely hairy: hardly the stuff young women dream about (as far as Bilbo could tell). And this was the same Dwarf who had sauntered about in summer meadows with a girl? Perhaps he had been less grim in his youth; though Bilbo was willing to believe that Thorin had been born with that scowl of his.

But all the same, he had grown rather fond of the gruff old warrior, for all his faults – if ‘fond’ was the right word. Bilbo had been somewhat in awe of Thorin; but he had also often been tempted to forcibly knock some sense into that thick dwarven skull of his. Thorin had not exactly been a sensible person; and Bilbo thought of the obstinacy Thorin had shown at the gate, and of that disastrous last charge, and shook his head sadly. But, he reflected, perhaps all that stuff about honour and pride and destiny had appealed to the lady. After all, she had been a king’s daughter. It was all extremely un-Hobbit-like, but one never knew with Tall Folk.

Bilbo patted his pocket, checking that his magic ring was still there; and he played with it, enjoying the smooth perfect roundness of the thing. Such a pretty thing. He wondered vaguely what had become of the little golden shieldmaiden that Thorin had carried around with him. Perhaps it had been lost, he decided, or perhaps it had been taken by the Elves. (1)

He toyed with the idea of writing down his adventure, though he was not quite sure why – for the edification of others, perhaps; although he mainly suspected it was for himself, so that he would not forget. He would have to start jotting down notes, he decided; and quickly. Everything still seemed so vivid; but he was afraid of how quickly his memories might fade.

But if he did write a book, he thought, and if others were ever to read it, he would need to come up with a convincing explanation for how he had acquired the ring in his pocket.

***

Bilbo found himself thinking a great deal about Thorin’s sister, the mother of Fíli and Kíli. He often thought of going to the Blue Mountains to visit her; after all, it was not so very far away, and he was curious to see Thorin’s halls, where all his friends had lived for such a long time. But Bilbo never quite made up his mind to go. It had been such a bothersome business, recovering his furniture, and all his various belongings that had been auctioned off. The legal unpleasantness lasted for years, and even so, he never recovered all of his spoons.

And so it was not until several years after Bilbo’s return to the Shire, when his crockery was back where it belonged, and the mementoes of his journey were all neatly arranged over the mantelpiece, and he had made good progress on his notes, that he decided to set off for the Blue Mountains. The weather was bright, and Bilbo thought it would make a fine walking-holiday, and perhaps allow him to glean a little more information for his book.

He packed a few necessities, took up his walking-stick, and set off with a spring in his step. He had waited too long to do this, he decided, feeling glad to be on the road again, even though he was only bound for the rather unadventurous Ered Luin. Bilbo greeted his fellow Hobbits cheerfully, and wished them a good morning; but they stared after him with looks of disapproval, and tutted to themselves about Mad Baggins. But they were not openly discourteous to him; after all, he may have been crazed, but he had money.

***

Bilbo’s visit to Thorin’s halls did not go as planned. In fact, it was one of the saddest days of his life.

The sculpted red cliff loomed over the village; but for one who had seen Erebor, Thorin’s halls were not much to look at. They seemed small, and – well – a little provincial. Knowing Thorin, Bilbo had expected something grander.

Many of the houses in the settlement stood empty and closed; and the few Tall Folk he came across wore a rather defeated air. At the village inn, they told him that most of the Dwarves had deserted their halls, and gone back to wherever they had originally come from, somewhere far away to the east. To be sure, a few of them remained; but trade had all but come to a standstill, and the prosperous market town with its lively fairs was a thing of the past.

Bilbo padded towards the dwarven halls with a growing sense of apprehension. There were no guards at the gate; and Bilbo saw only a few Dwarves going about their business in the various galleries leading from the dim hall. So this was the kingdom Thorin had built. Everything looked dishevelled and gloomy; and Bilbo thought what a sad legacy this was.

“Excuse me,” he said, to no one in particular, hoping that one of the passing Dwarves would stop and talk to him. A few of the Dwarves shot him a glance, then scurried on. “Excuse me,” he said again, a little louder this time; but no one took any notice of him. Bilbo found himself alone in the deserted hall. He looked at the tapestries for a few minutes. He tapped his feet. “Right,” he thought, his Tookish side bristling. And in the loudest voice he could muster, he announced: “I am Bilbo Baggins, companion of Thorin Oakenshield on his quest to the Lonely Mountain! I wish to speak with the lady Dís!”

Bilbo waited a few moments as the echo of his voice bounced off the high walls. Perhaps that was a little over the top, he thought. A rather unkempt Dwarf did approach him eventually; he appeared to have come from a cubbyhole near the gate.

“You’re a bit late for that, Mister,” he said, shuffling towards Bilbo. “I’ve not seen you in these parts. You claim to have known the King?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did know him,” answered Bilbo, a little testily. “And have you been inside that gate-house all this time? I’ve been standing here for ages!”

“Been having a nap, me,” answered the Dwarf, and scratched himself to prove his point. “There’s not a lot of guarding to do anymore; not these days.”

“Not a lot going on, is there,” remarked Bilbo drily. And then: “What do you mean, I’m too late?”

“Well, they’ve all gone, haven’t they? The lady Dís, the councillors, the tradesmen, the whole lot of them. Moved back to the Mountain.” Bilbo blinked. “What did you expect?”

Bilbo stared at the Dwarf. “What, all of them? Even the lady? And the… people in charge? You mean… they all just upped and left? But… what about this place?”

“Well, they’re Longbeards, aren’t they. Ancestral home, and all that. Me, I’m a Broadbeam. Personally, I’m not sorry to see the back of them. We get these nice big halls all to ourselves, and without the bloody Longbeards lording it over us. ‘Course, trade’s slumped a bit, but what have you got. It’ll pick up.”

Bilbo still couldn’t believe that Thorin’s people had abandoned this perfectly good settlement. Evidently, he hadn’t rightly understood what the Mountain had meant to them, despite all the time he had spent with the Dwarves. Of course, he could understand that Thorin, and those of the older generation, desired to reclaim their birthplace. But even the young ones, the ones that had been born in the west…? He had honestly thought that more of Durin’s folk would have remained.

Bilbo stared at his feet. He was too late. He was sorry to have missed Fíli and Kíli’s mother; he had been looking forward to chatting with her over a cup of tea. He was so sure she would have been pleased to see him. He would have told her all about his adventure, and they would have reminisced about Thorin, Fíli and Kíli; and she would have thanked him for all the brave things he had done to help her brother. Bilbo sighed.

“Oh well,” said the Hobbit. “It seems I’ve come all this way for nothing. What a pity. Right, I’d best be off, then.”

“You sure you won’t stick around for a bit?” said the Dwarf, jangling a huge key-ring. “I could show you around. Give you a tour, like,” he added, with the friendly look of someone who was hoping for a generous tip.

“Haven’t you got some guarding to do?” asked Bilbo.

The Dwarf shrugged. “Guarding what? Bragi. At your service.”

***

Even with detailed descriptions of the various statues and tapestries, the tour was over quickly. Bilbo showed polite interest; but there wasn’t a great deal to see. Bragi, determined to earn his gold coin, sidled up to the plump little visitor, and whispered: “Well, there _is_ another interesting feature I could show you… It’s not exactly open to the public, you understand; but seeing as you’re a friend of the family…”

And so he led Bilbo down into the crypt. It was kept locked, and no-one visited it these days; and Bilbo thought that it was rather small and unimpressive compared to the resting-place of the kings of Erebor. But as Bragi raised his lantern, Bilbo could not help but gasp.

There, in the centre of the chamber, were two sculpted sarcophagi, side by side: one white, and one black.

Bilbo stared. “Wha- what?” he managed.

“Well, that’s the reason we don’t really want people coming down here,” supplied Bragi. “It’s a bit of an embarrassment, isn’t it, the whole thing. Elvish, too. But Balin insisted it was the proper thing to do; and who’s to argue with what Balin wants?”

“B- Balin had this made?” stammered Bilbo.

“When he came back from the Mountain, aye. You’d think he’d have had enough on his plate, breaking the news to the lady Dís, and winding up the settlement, and organising the move, and everything; but no, he had to go out of his way to find that Elf again – and pay him good money, too! - to make an empty tomb that no one would ever see… Ugly thing, isn’t it?”

But Bilbo wasn’t really listening anymore; he was studying the monument of polished black stone in painful amazement.

The elven sculptor had shown Thorin as he had been in life: a great Dwarf, proud and majestic, with all the attributes of kingship. On his breast was the elven blade Orcrist (which Balin had described as well as he could); and in his hand, he held a faceted crystal to represent the Arkenstone. The Raven Crown was upon his brow.

The statue had not the bland serenity of elven sculptures such as Bilbo had seen in Rivendell; and as he looked upon the handsome, frowning face of the Dwarf King once more, Bilbo felt a sudden pang of guilt, and had to turn away, for his eyes were filled with tears. He rummaged in his pocket for his handkerchief, and wondered, as he sometimes did, how things might have turned out, had he chosen a different course of action. Perhaps what he had done had bought them time; but the more Bilbo thought about it, the more he felt that his theft of the Arkenstone had achieved nothing, except to betray Thorin’s trust, and hurt his pride.

 _Oh no, here I go again_ , he thought. He wanted to sob like a child, but managed to pull himself together, on account of his guide. Instead, Bilbo blew his nose, and stooped to study the reliefs on the sides of the tomb.

The first panel, at the head of the tomb, showed the coming of the dragon. It was a swirling of flames and a billowing of smoke; and it was beautiful. It should not have been. Bilbo had seen Smaug with his own eyes, and he knew the sheer horror of that great ugly brute. He remembered the devastation the beast had wreaked upon Erebor, and shuddered, and moved quickly to the side of the tomb.

It was divided into three panels. The first narrow panel showed Thorin at his anvil, labouring as a smith during his years of exile. It was mirrored by the third panel, where the young prince stood on a hilltop in a noble attitude, leading his people towards their new home. Bilbo smiled at that; but his smile faded, for in between those two panels was depicted the battle of Azanulbizar. Bilbo saw Thorin locked in combat with the pale Orc, wielding no more than an oaken branch as a shield, and he saw the writhing figures of warriors, and the contorted shapes of the slain, Dwarves and Orcs both; and in his mind’s eye Bilbo remembered the terrible violence he had seen on the slopes of Erebor, and for a moment he panicked, and could not breathe.

“You all right?” inquired a bored Bragi, vaguely concerned for his tearful, fidgety visitor.

“I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine,” wheezed Bilbo, trying to dispel images of slaughter. “Allergies. Yes, that’s it. Allergies.”

He moved on to the foot of the tomb. There Thorin stood, triumphantly holding up a key before his astonished companions, as a beam of light fell upon the secret door. _Ha_ , thought Bilbo. At least the elven sculptor had thoughtfully included a little thrush.

Bilbo passed quickly over the last three panels. Thorin was shown enthroned in splendour as King Under the Mountain ( _not for very long_ , thought Bilbo). He hardly dared look at the relief showing the Battle of the Five Armies. Thorin was there, leading his glorious last charge, rallying his people, with Fíli and Kíli close behind him. Bilbo’s eyes filled with tears again. He vaguely saw eagles and a bear among the chaos; perhaps he too was in there somewhere, but he could not bear to look too closely.

The last panel showed Thorin being laid to rest by grieving kinsmen, with the Arkenstone on his heart. Bilbo looked away.

He blew his nose again – at length – and went and studied the lady’s tomb for a while, to distract himself. It was as Balin had described it: a pretty effigy of a woman holding a sword, carved in smooth white marble. Bilbo bent to look at the storied panels. It all seemed frightfully heroic, with lots of pageantry; and yes, there they were, she and Thorin, looking touching, if rather ill-assorted. But Bilbo found it a little sad that the reliefs on her tomb were all about Thorin, while she was nowhere to be seen on his.

Bragi was chattering on. “It’s bad enough having _her_ down here,” he said, pointing at the lady’s white tomb, “but _him_? What was the point of doing _him_? I mean, _he_ ’s over in Erebor, and they’ve all left for Erebor, so why bother making a great expensive elvish monument for _him_?”

“Maybe Balin thought she needed something to keep her company,” said Bilbo, trying not to get upset.

“Seems a bit pointless. It’s not like she’s in there, you know. They’re both empty.”

“Wha- How do you know?” exclaimed Bilbo. Bragi merely shrugged; but Bilbo understood with a sudden, chilling clarity that they had checked. They had opened her tomb. He could not fathom why anyone might want to do such a thing.

“But then…” he stammered, and looked at the lady’s tomb, “if she isn’t in there…where is she?”

***

Some years later, Bilbo, being ever curious of the Elves, journeyed to the Grey Havens. On that occasion, he made enquiries about the elven sculptor who had worked for the Dwarves in Ered Luin. Bilbo was told that Aurvandil had taken a ship, and sailed West. For some reason, that news made him sad.

***

Somewhere among the gentle foothills of southern Ered Luin, there is a green knoll that rises amid the woods. A brook runs merrily past the foot of the hill; and its head is crowned with a copse of linden trees. It is a fair and quiet place, though none ever go there, save the beasts that step out of the forest and towards the brook to drink. In summer, the sun shines warm on the grassy mound; and the linden-blossom fills the air with its sweet, honeyed scent.

Balin knew where that place lay, along with a few others; though he never breathed word of this to any living soul.

“Remove her body,” Thorin had bidden him. “For when the news of my death reaches the Blue Mountains, I fear what they might do with her – I fear that they might covet the stone,” he had said, meaning the starry jewel. “Take a few whom you can trust, and remove her somewhere safe, somewhere hidden.”

And Balin had thought that Thorin’s fears were exaggerated; but his King had asked him with such urgency that Balin had not had the heart to deny him. After all, it was his last wish. And so, once he had returned to Ered Luin, he had gone into the crypt one night, with a few others, and removed the lady’s leaden casket from her white tomb, and carried her in secret to a place where none would find her.

“Bury her under a linden tree,” Thorin had said; “for never now shall we lie side by side under vaults of stone. But if we must lie half a world apart, then at least she should rest under the open sky, with clouds racing up above, and dappled sunlight through the boughs, and green grass about her. Promise me.”

And Balin had promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Bilbo never found out what had become of it.


	72. Appendix A - Note on the text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Because fake Tolkienese wouldn’t be complete without Appendices and footnotes.

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Appendix A**

 

NOTE ON THE TEXT

The tale as presented here was reconstructed from Bilbo’s notes. It seems that Bilbo decided not to include the material pertaining to Thorin’s wife in the Red Book of Westmarch. Perhaps Bilbo felt that the matter was a private one, and that it would be indelicate to mention it in his account of his adventure to Smaug’s mountain. Or perhaps he merely thought it irrelevant to his retelling of the important events surrounding the Quest for Erebor.

Other sources are all but silent concerning the events narrated above. No trace of the lady of the Mark is to be found in the archives of the Lonely Mountain (and well might one assume that the Dwarves were only too eager to omit any reference to her in their records, when they abandoned the settlement at Ered Luin and returned to Erebor). The genealogies and histories of Rohan kept in the library at Brandy Hall mention her name and year of birth, but little else.

The most extensive account of her life, beside that given in Bilbo’s notes, is found in one copy of the Thain’s Book kept at Rivendell. The original Thain’s book was a copy of the Red Book made in Gondor at the request of King Elessar; where it received corrections and appendices. The Rivendell copy of the Thain’s Book, however, differs in several points from the other documented manuscripts, and includes material that is not found elsewhere; it is likely that it was copied, and supplemented, in Rivendell, either through the inclusion of another source (now lost) or – and this is more likely – with information supplied by Elrond himself, or by learned guests at his court. Elrond may well have known of Thorin Oakenshield’s predicament, as Bilbo’s account claims; and indeed, it cannot be ruled out that Bilbo and Elrond discussed the matter further during the Hobbit’s long sojourn in the Last Homely House.

This version reads as follows:

 _‘[…] After the battle of Nanduhirion, the Orcs fled the Misty Mountains. Many made their way across the plains of Rohan to the White Mountains in the south, and preyed on the people of the Horse-Lords; and the land was troubled by raids for many years thereafter. King Brytta, being concerned for the welfare of his people, desired to strengthen the ancient stronghold of Helm’s Deep. And so, on the advice of Gandalf, he sent for the help of the Dwarves; and among those of Durin’s folk that came to the Mark was Thorin Oakenshield. The Dwarves laboured in Rohan only one summer long; but with their aid, the Eorlingas were able to hold the Orcs at bay._ (1)

 _King Brytta had a daughter; Helmwyn was her name. She was a shieldmaiden, after the manner of the women of the house of Eorl; and Thorin loved her, for she was fearless and high-hearted. When the time came for Thorin to return to Ered Luin, Helmwyn vowed to hang up her sword for his sake, and to cleave to him; and they were trothplighted, though they had to wait several years until she came at last to his halls to wed with him. They dwelt together in contentment; but Helmwyn, being a daughter of Men, was short-lived, and long it could not be until she died, and Thorin was left childless and heartbroken._ †

_Durin’s folk mined, and crafted, and traded, and they began to thrive once more. But the ring preyed ever on Thráin’s mind, and dreams of the Dwarves’ lost wealth made him restless and distracted. At last, Thráin went forth to reclaim the realm of his fathers; but misfortune pursued him on the road, and at last he went missing, and his companions searched in vain for him. And so Thorin sat in Thráin’s chair and ruled in his stead, a king in all but name; for he was ever mindful of his duty to his people. But care and grief lay heavy upon his shoulders, and he smiled seldom; and though he was still young by the reckoning of Dwarves, his hair was touched with grey. […]’_

The Rivendell manuscript includes this note:

† _It is not known what befell Thorin’s wife. Most who have lore concerning these matters believe that she shared the fate of all the Secondborn, and that her spirit passed beyond the confines of this world. But some say that she may have been admitted into Aulë’s halls. It may be that Mandos granted her this boon, on account of her son; for though he had not lived long, he was half of dwarven race, such as there had not been before, and it may be that Aulë took pity on him, and did not wish to part him from his mother._ (2)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Note how the women are never given any credit in the histories.
> 
>  
> 
> (2) Evidently there was some disagreement on this matter among the scholars of Elrond’s house.
> 
> It is entirely possible that Helmwyn stood before Mandos, and railed against the inflexible decrees of the gods that kept the kindreds asunder, and spoke of exceptions being made for the sake of mixed couples when Elves were involved, and complained at length of arbitrary rules and unjust privilege. Perhaps she sat at the foot of Mandos’ throne, and vowed not to budge until Thorin Oakenshield joined them, and had his say. Or perhaps it was that her tears moved Mandos, and her entreaties not to be sundered from her beloved husband. Or perhaps still, it was that she clasped the shade of her son to the shade of her bosom, and sang to the little soul to soothe his fears. It may be that Aulë smiled on her stubbornness, and claimed her as one of his own, and begged this grace of Iluvatar, that she and her son might abide in the Halls of Waiting, and be reunited with Thorin Oakenshield when he too came thither.
> 
> But that is merely speculation; and the question must remain unanswered.


End file.
